


a toast to the ones that we lost on the way

by littleoldrachel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Marauders, Marauders Fest 2020, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleoldrachel/pseuds/littleoldrachel
Summary: On grief, healing, second chances, and friendship that transcends time and space.Or: a Marauders reunion in the afterlife.(Written for the Marauders Fest 2020)
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28
Collections: Marauders Fest 2020





	1. Prongs

He’s still screaming when he regains consciousness, but he stops, mid-blood-curdling cry because - 

_He’s regained consciousness._

The last thing James can remember is the terrible rasp of _Avada Kedavra_ upon Voldemort’s lips, the violent burst of green light, pain, pain, _pain_ , and beneath it all, the desperate hope that Lily and Harry will be saved. 

And against all odds, here he is. 

The pain is gone, even though his muscles are still tensed as though under attack, and he slowly unfurls his limbs. Did… did Voldemort miss him? Did the Order swoop in and rescue them in the nick of time? There has to be an explanation for this - for his _living_ , his apparent lack of injury - 

James Potter forces his eyes open, squinting as a ray of golden sunshine strikes him directly in the face. 

_Golden?_ Sunshine? That means... What does that mean? 

What does _any_ of it mean?

It’s quiet - too quiet. And he’s sprawled on the floor of a familiar hallway, arms outstretched, legs tangled, glasses askew. 

He stumbles as he stands, pushes a hand out to the pram, and the solidness of it makes him start even more. He’s not sure what he was expecting - to pass straight through it perhaps, like the ghosts of Hogwarts - but instead his hand claps against it, cool and _definitely_ solid, encroaching on what little hallway space there is.

_What is happening?_

And more importantly - where is Lily? And Harry? 

It’s their house - James and Lily’s - the home where they’ve spent the last two years in hiding. 

Only the door is still on its hinges, no fractured glass across the floor, no upturned furniture. Nothing to belie the violence that occurred here. 

James swallows hard, takes a breath. He can figure this out; he’s a bloody good wizard and a smart one, too. He didn’t get straight Os in his NEWTs for nothing. Merlin, he and his mates didn’t figure out how to become Animagi aged thirteen without some serious brain power.

(His _mates._ James’ brain short-circuits for a split second before shuddering back into action because - no time to examine that now). 

He strides across the narrow hallway to the living room, which is equally untouched. His wand is lying where he left it, across the coffee table, but the debris from his confetti tricks (a source of endless entertainment for his one-year-old son) is gone. 

James pockets the wand, feeling slightly less overwhelmed for the weight of it in his pocket, even if he’s no wiser on any of this. 

He needs to find his family. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, he doesn’t dare call out in case Voldemort _is_ still here, even though all evidence points otherwise, but the air is just as still on the landing. 

Another deep breath, fingers gripped tight around his wand, he pads across to Harry’s room. The door swings open to reveal - 

Nothing. 

There’s nobody here. 

James stares for a second, runs a frantic hand through his hair, then turns on his heel, checking their bedroom, the bathroom, Harry’s room again - 

Nothing. 

And yet. Everything else is just as it should be: blankets in the crib, Magic Alphabet arranging and rearranging itself, toys scattered across the floor. 

_Where are they?_

Another terrible thought enters his head, and James is out of the room in seconds, flinging himself down the stairs, because _fuck_ , what if he’s _taken them?_ His hand is resting on the doorknob of the front door, ready to go out and tear apart all of Britain if he has to, but then-

“James?”

James freezes, hand slipping from the handle, and turns.

“Lily?” He calls up the stairs, ignoring how his voice trembles, because _please. Please_ let it be Lily. “Lils? Is that you?!”

Bounding up the stairs takes too long to soothe the aching desperation in his chest, and so instead he disappears with a _crack!_ that splits the silent air. He Apparates straight to Harry’s room, heart pounding and -

(He doesn’t think Lily will ever stop taking his breath away. Even now, even with fear clenched around his heart and bewilderment clouding every thought, Lily _is_ his heart. Even with her red hair fluttering like flames around her pale face, even with emerald eyes wide with panic, even as she stands on unsteady legs, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world).

“ _Lily,_ ” James breathes at the same time as she whispers-

“Thank _God_.”

“Just James is fine,” James grins, and Lily rolls her eyes.

“Come here, Potter.”

He goes, arms flinging around his wife, revelling in the solidness of her. “I thought you were - I thought he’d-” James’ voice wobbles alarmingly, and Lily’s fingers snag in the unruly hairs at the base of his neck, reassuringly real against his skin. “We - Harry. We need to find Harry.”

Lily’s fingers still their soothing, smoothing motion and she draws back from his chest. “James, we -”

“Come _on,_ Lily, he _needs_ us -”

“James, we’re not - Voldemort kill-”

James turns, unwilling - or unable - to hear what she is trying to tell him, but she grabs his arm instead. “ _James_ , stop. He’s not here.”

“He has to be.” There’s an awful tightening around James’ throat and his eyes are burning, “and I’m going to find him. And you can stay here, but I -” his voice crackles _again_ , and he clamps his mouth shut. He can’t quite meet Lily’s gaze, knowing he’ll meet pity and concern there, but she loosens her grip on his arm. 

James Apparates back to the front door, resting his forehead against the cool glass for a split second, before flinging it open and striding out into the bright sunshine. 

Houses spill out before him like ink on parchment, only it isn’t Godric’s Hollow. The cottages lining the street are unmistakably _wizard;_ watering cans drip themselves over flower beds, a barn owl flutters through an open bedroom window, a battered broomstick lies forgotten on a front lawn. Gone are the Muggles with minds as small as the hamlet, who scowl suspiciously at James’ darker skin and mutter about their village going to the dogs. 

It’s not Godric’s Hollow, but nor is it any wizarding town James has ever visited. 

He doesn’t like what he thinks this means, but he continues - not sure where he’s going, no solid plan of how to _find_ his son, only knowing that he has to keep moving, because if he stops for a second, he’s going to have to think about the reality of the situation. 

The residential street opens up into a bustling shopping district that somewhat resembles the quaintness of Hogsmeade with the liveliness of Diagon Alley. There’s a cafe serving towering stacks of ice creams, sandwiched between a bookshop creaking beneath the weight of its offerings and a tailor’s displaying cloaks in rich sapphires and vivid emeralds. 

James doesn’t know this place, and yet, it’s not unfamiliar to him. He treads streets packed with shops he has never seen before, passes more houses, nods at the occasional individuals who offer a friendly greeting. 

The burning need to find his son is slowly being eroded by the cold realisation of what Lily was trying to tell him. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows that Lily was right - has known it since he woke up here - but Lily has always been braver than him.

James is tired of being brave - he’s tired, full-stop. 

But he can dredge up enough courage for this one last thing. 

* * *

Lily is perched on the front steps when he returns, smiling as he approaches and drops down beside her. Wordlessly, she hands him a mug of tea - because, Muggle or Wizard, this is what British people do in any and every situation.

James takes a gulp before speaking and it scalds him but also thaws the cold, anxious knot in his throat. 

“Harry’s not dead.”

“No, I don’t think he is.”

“But we are dead.”

“Yes.” It wasn’t a question, but Lily seems to know he needed an answer anyway.

“And. Where is this exactly?”

Lily shakes her head. “My father would claim it’s heaven or something.”

“Nah, I don’t believe in that bull so it can’t be.” 

“Some kind of afterlife then. I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m - I’m fucking terrified for him, Lils.” He doesn’t need to clarify who he’s talking about.

Lily stares down at her own mug. “Me too.” 

James swallows hard around the knot and reaches for Lily’s hand. She locks their fingers together. “I - what do you think will happen to him?”

She rests her head against his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bare skin of his collarbone and he shivers. “He’s going to save the world, remember?”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Have you met our son? His daddy is the smartest wizard in the world -”

“And his mum’s not half bad herself,” James returns. Lily swats at him with a grin. Then it fades, and her forehead creases.

“To be honest. If I think about him at the moment, I can _feel_ my heart breaking.” She presses a fist to her chest and takes a breath. “I _have_ to believe that he’s okay. I _have_ to believe that Sirius is going to love him and protect him with everything he has. I _have_ to hold on to that.”

James can’t breathe at the mention of Sirius. 

Because acknowledging that this is some kind of afterlife and that Sirius is still living means addressing the hippogriff in the room - that they were betrayed. 

Only it wasn’t Remus. _Remus,_ who James has spent the last few months growing gradually colder towards, who he carefully watched play with Harry, seeking any sign that one of his best friends has turned traitor. Remus, whose last conversation with James had been layered with hurt and doubt, who hadn’t deserved James’ mistrust. _Merlin_ , it hurts that he’d ever believed Remus capable of such a thing. 

Nor was it Sirius. Because switching Secret Keeper at the last minute was Sirius’ last desperate attempt to keep the Potters _safe_. And they’d been so _sure_ that they had outsmarted the villains, that all would be well. It was going to destroy Sirius to realise how wrong they had been. 

James’ world caves in on itself as the full realisation of Peter’s betrayal comes crashing down. _Peter_. The unlikeliest - and therefore most perfect - spy. _How had it happened?_ Did Peter just wake up one morning and decide the Marauders were no longer his ride-or-die? That James and Lily and their tiny baby deserved to be slaughtered? That a dangerous fascist was spouting ideals that really clicked with him? 

Or had it been this way all along? Had Peter always secretly loathed them? But in none of his recollections of long nights in the Shrieking Shack, frantically trying to save their best friend from himself, or harebrained schemes that landed them in detention more often than not, can he remember ever doubting Peter’s loyalty. 

He doesn’t realise the sobs wrenching the air are his own until Lily’s hands are guiding him inside, thumbing fat tears from his cheeks, enveloping him in a warm, _safe_ embrace.

But James can’t believe it will ever stop hurting.

* * *

Grief is a messy complicated thing, like shattering a glass, sweeping up the shards, only discovering missed slivers of it when they bury themselves in unsuspecting heels weeks later. 

Part of the problem, James feels, is that they’re having to do this all backwards. Instead of being the ones to grieve the loss of a loved one, they are grieving the lives they lost, the friends they’ve left behind, the son they’ve barely had the chance to know. 

James wakes in the mornings after restless sleep, blearily walks to Harry’s room to check on his boy. There’s be the momentary panic at his absence, and then _he remembers_. Or Lily gets halfway through mashing up some banana and cinnamon for Harry when she slides down the counter, utterly defeated. Or James attempts to Floo to Sirius’ place, only to break down when he realises why it’s not working. 

* * *

At first, there’s only numbness. 

James moves through this strange afterlife like a ghost, taking in the cherry blossom petals in the park, the coolness of ice cream on his tongue, the names of the families either side of their house, without actually _taking it in_. The petals in the park fall like confetti and dig a dagger between his ribs at the thought of Harry’s toothless beam. The ice cream tastes _just_ like Fortescue’s, creamy and thick in his mouth, but he’ll never again get to see Remus’ eyes flutter shut in pleasure at the taste of his chocolate sundae. Their neighbours are kind, smiling faces, but James can only stare at the way the father’s hand clasps his son’s shoulder and think _you’re dead but at least you all died together_. 

It’s a terrible thought to think. 

He spends a lot of his days falling apart, bracing himself for the agony of heaving sobs and rubbed-raw eyes as he feels his heart unpicking itself from his body, leaving him untethered and _empty_. 

It’s worse when it’s Lily’s turn though, because all James can do is cradle her and tack their broken hearts together, for no magic in the world can fix this. 

* * *

Anger comes next, and it’s better than the numbness, because at least then _he’s feeling something_. There’s just so much of it, it’s like rivers of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he has to start running again to dispel some of the frustrated energy. 

One night - late, beneath a velveteen sky pin-pricked with silver - James breaks into a sprint, running flat-out past the boundaries of the town, further than he’s explored yet. He runs, and runs, and runs, barely aware of cantering on four legs instead of two, only stopping when he’s panting his lungs out of his chest.

James sinks into grass flushed silvery grey beneath the moon and gazes up. It’s beautiful, but the beauty only serves to make him angrier, because- 

“It’s not bloody _fair_ ,” he yells at a sky full of stars. “It’s not _fucking fair_!” 

He’s howling at the moon now, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I doubted you, _Moony, I’m sorry_.” He misses Remus. Misses that wicked smile that signalled a cunning plan, misses those kind eyes that know _just_ what he needs to hear, misses his hoarse chuckle, his brilliant mind, his encouraging words, his self-deprecating jokes. Would give anything to run alongside him across the Forbidden Forest once more, or watch his eyes light up as Sirius kissed his cheek, or even just throw his arms around him and breathe him in. 

He has to blink hard to clear the blurriness of his vision, smudging his glasses as his eyelashes smear tears onto them. In spite of it, his eyes track to Sirius, the brightest star in the sky and he’s _livid_ once more. “It wasn’t your fault,” his throat rips the words out of him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats in a whisper. Because he knows Sirius - knows that the cost of their misplaced trust will be _destroying_ him. 

It’s impossibly cruel that one man’s selfish choice has ruined so many lives. 

He closes his eyes and opens himself up to the stampede of memories. He misses Sirius’ barking laughter, his effortless talent, his rash courage, his unwavering loyalty, his sharp wit. He aches for the days of knowing, no matter how stupid an idea it was, Sirius would be by his side to the bitter end - and misses the comfort of being so fiercely loved. Despite how he used to roll his eyes at their antics, he finds himself longing for the infatuated way Sirius would drape himself all over Remus and demand attention.

James opens his eyes again and stares up into the void. Maybe, someday, his son will stare up at the same sky and think of his parents. 

It’s not _fair_ that James won’t get to take him to see a Quidditch match, or cry when they take him to Platform 9 and ¾, or hear him gush about Hogwarts and the best years of his life. It’s beyond heart-breaking that he won’t see him lose his baby teeth or teach him to ride a broom.

It’s not fair, but on that night, James feels the threads of his heart begin to knit themselves back together. With acceptance, comes healing. And he has all the time in the world to get there. 

* * *

In some ways, it’s something like a dream.

Lily begins to sculpt the garden she’s always wanted, hacking down the thick, ugly hedge with overly enthusiastic _Reducio charms,_ and replacing them with bursts of wildflowers. She plants the seeds for a vegetable patch too and dedicates hours to weeding and pruning them. (The beam on Lily’s sweaty, mud-streaked face, coupled with the exquisite taste of home-grown carrots they get the following year, makes her toil entirely worth the effort).

For his part, James tasks himself with renovating their actual house - adding wide windows that let in oceans of sunlight, a “television” at Lily’s insistence (what a strange device), and an atmospheric charm to bring the starlight into the living room. Those first few months see him seeking out Sirius and the moon more frequently than he cares to admit.

Harry’s room does not get touched.

They get the honeymoon they never got when the Wizarding War made it too dangerous to be carefree like that. 

They spend a thoroughly Muggle week at the seaside. They spend lazy days on the sand, wrapped around each other or reading, drinking in the golden sun. Or they splash into the sea, casting quiet _Aqua Eructo_ spells to distract the other ready for dunking. In the evenings, they stroll down the pier, eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and licking the grease off their fingers, or hurling their bumper cars into one another on the Dodgems. The second week, they stay in a cosy hut in the lap of a valley, and James drags Lily up and down mountains, relishing the burn of such cool, clean air and endless horizons. At night, they watch the stars together and cry, laugh, reminisce. 

It’s blissful - too blissful.

“Are we allowed to think like that?” Lily asks him one night, “are we allowed to feel this happy after everything?”

James doesn’t have an answer for her. 

* * *

They have sex - a _lot_ \- in ways they haven’t had the energy for in years and without the knowledge that any minute, their son could wake up and demand to be fed. 

That’s bittersweet in itself, but it’s all about the sweetness of it when James’ head is between Lily’s thighs, turning lovemaking into a form of worship through the tenderness of his mouth. 

They’re living in domestic bliss. They want for nothing (except their loved ones) and they’re safe from harm (even if they had to die to get it). And a lot of the time, they are _happy_ , or at least content with this strange afterlife. 

* * *

However, in more ways, it’s a struggle. 

Especially when the others begin to appear.

_Exhibit A:_

A red-headed man with a straggled moustache reaches for the same plum as James at the market, and they both draw back apologetically, insisting the other takes it. 

Then the man’s eyes widen, “ _Potter_?” and James’ mouth falls open. 

“ _Gideon_? Gideon Prewett?”

“What are you-”

“When did you-”

It transpires that Gideon has been here a while, long enough that he and Fabian have settled into their lives here. They take James and Lily out to a pub and narrate their deaths with well-practiced cockiness that hides the grimness of the tale. 

“ _Five_ Death Eaters? That’s insane, Gids,” Lily says, shaking her head. 

Fabian laughs, but there’s nothing funny about Death Eaters. “It’s the truth, Lils,” they say, running a hand over their shaved head. 

The afterlife suits them both despite their grisly ends; gone is the weight of anxiety that used to cling to their shoulders and demand constant vigilance. Gideon talks brightly about the man he’s dating and the sports teams he’s a part of (football _and_ Quidditch - “you should come try out for the Quidditch team, Potter”). Fabian tells them that they’re figuring out their identity in a way that was never allowed in their oppressive childhood home, nor under the pressure of war. 

It’s nice to have friends - Gideon and Fabian are nothing like the Marauders, of course, but it helps James to feel a little less like he and Lily have been stranded in a strange place. 

_Exhibit B:_

Lily is waiting in line at the Potions store with a pot of Dittany, when she’s tapped on the shoulder. Turning, she sees a woman in a hijab with a familiar smile. “Lily Evans, as I live and breathe. Or perhaps. As I don’t.”

“Marlene,” Lily says, her voice crackly, disbelieving, warm, and she flings her arms around her old friend. 

“It’s _so_ good to see you, Lils.”

There’s so much to say - too much for standing in a shopping line, and the two go back to Marlene’s cottage. It's beautiful, nestling at the edge of the forest and encircled by a river. 

Even more beautiful though, is the sight that greets them as they walk up the path: Dorcas Meadowes steps through the doorway, her hair woven into gorgeous purple braids, and she greets Marlene with a full kiss on the lips.

“Missed you,” she says, pressing another kiss at the side of Marlene’s mouth, and Marlene _beams_ , and then Dorcas turns. “And _you_.” She hugs Lily tightly, and somewhere in Lily’s chest, a withered flower raises its head to the sunlight once more. 

_Exhibit C:_

It’s hardest of all when a soft knock at the door swings it open to reveal Fleamont and Euphemia Potter, watching his ma’s eyes fill with tears, and his dad press a shaking hand to his mouth. 

James can feel his face crumpling as he sees them, and they gather him in their arms and cry. They never got to meet their grandson - and they still won’t - but at least they get more time with their son. 

* * *

For all the blessings that seeing their loved ones bring, with it comes the forced acceptance that not all is well in the Wizarding World. Whilst most of their friends’ deaths were known to them before their own, they gather scraps of information from Marlene, who was killed only a few days after the Potters. 

The unbelievable and incredible gist of it seems to be that Voldemort has been defeated _by their baby boy_. It’s unclear exactly how this came about, and even foggier as to the state of the world now that he’s gone, because, as Marlene too-cheerfully points out “I was brutally murdered pretty quickly after that, so….”

Harry never appears, and they cling to this. The image of their son being raised by his godfather and Remus is a candle of comfort on even the darkest nights. The knowledge that he lives and breathes and _is -_ that’s enough, for now. 

It has to be. 

The grief dampens over time - it never fades. Just as a broken bone heals weaker than its original, James’ heart has become a fragile thing, worn down by corrosive trauma and cracks of longing. No matter how much he loves Gideon, Fabian, Marlene, Dorcas, and his parents, no matter how many magical days and nights he spends with Lily, no matter how well settled he feels in this afterlife, he misses them. It's a paradox of desperately wanting them here with him and never wanting to see them, because to see them would mean they have died, and it's selfish to wish for such a thing.

He misses Sirius most keenly on his early morning runs, over bottles of Firewhisky, as records play, at the roar of a motorbike outside. For Remus, it’s the turn of a page, the heady scent of hot chocolate, a crisp evening with a low-hung moon, the scratch of wool against his skin.

He never stops missing Harry.

But as an afterlife goes, he’s pretty lucky with his.

And so, he settles in, and waits.


	2. Padfoot

It only takes _fifteen bleeding years_ for the bugger to show up. 

And when he finally does, he bursts into James' afterlife in the exact same way he used to in mortal life: with a joke to cut the tension. 

"How is it fair that I'm _still_ more attractive than you when I'm practically middle-aged and you're in your prime?" 

James stares at him with a discomfiting intensity, and Sirius rakes a hand through his hair, awkward in a way it never is - never should be - with his best mate. 

"You'd think after fifteen years you'd have figured out what to do with your hair," Sirius pokes again, and this time, James reacts.

"Padfoot?"

(It's so good to hear that name in his voice that Sirius could _weep)_.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up." 

Suddenly James' arms are round Sirius, gripping him tightly, almost desperately, and Sirius _sags_ into him.

"Fifteen years," James says softly into Sirius' shoulder, "and I've felt every single day of it."

"Me too, Prongs," Sirius says, his voice heavier than he means it to be, but he can't help it; his best friend is hugging the shit out of him and his scent (outdoors - coffee beans - sandalwood - _love_ ) engulfs him. 

For the first time in fifteen years, Sirius is _home_. That jagged gash in his heart that not even Remus has been able to heal finally stops oozing hurt. His best friend was _murdered_ , and so too now, was Sirius. 

He doesn’t want to draw back from James - not now, not ever - but there’s something he has to say to him, even if it changes everything between them. He’s been practicing it in his mind for years now, rehearsing the words through drunken tears and half-starved brain fog, sending them up god knows where in hopeless apology. It shouldn’t feel so hard to scrape them out of himself, but it takes every ounce of courage left in him to do so.

“I’m - I’m sorry, Prongs. I’m so fucking sorry.”

James opens his mouth to speak, but Sirius ploughs on - he has to get this out:

“I’m sorry for making you switch Secret Keepers last minute, I’m sorry - I didn’t know, I would never have - I -” He’s practiced this so many times, but now that he’s here, the words are jumbling in his throat, a messy Scrabble board of apologies. “I should have protected you better, I shouldn’t have just trusted Wormt- _Peter_. And -” his voice wobbles, it’s a battle to keep it steady. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to Peter, and that Harry had to grow up without you -” Now his voice gives way completely, because _Harry_. 

He bows his head, unable to meet James’ eyes for fear of what he’ll find there, and lets the tears drip from his nose, hot and stinging.

“ _What_ are you talking about, you absolute dungbrain?” James says, stepping back into Sirius’ space and forcing him to look at him. “There’s _nothing_ you need to apologise for, Padfoot.”

“That’s not true-” Sirius would be embarrassed at how pathetic and small he sounds (Orion Black would have a field day with this one, “ _stop crying like a little f*ggot_ ”), except that he and James have seen each other cry a hundred times. “It’s my fault you switched - you would never have done it if I didn’t persuade you-”

“Padfoot. _Padfoot_.” James presses his palms to Sirius’ cheeks, forcing his head up so that their eyes meet. Behind his glasses, James’ eyes too are a little too bright - _glistening with the ghosts of his past,_ Rita Skeeter would write, and Sirius represses the urge to cry-snort. “Listen to me. There is no way you could have known-”

“But-”

“ _Listen to me,_ Padfoot. I have spent the last fifteen years replaying every fucking memory of Wormtail in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly when he turned on us, asking myself _why_ I didn’t spot it, and you know what?” His expression is painfully earnest; Sirius forgot how James gets when he’s passionate about something (how could he forget?). “I can’t find it. Because none of us could have known. It wasn’t my fault, or yours, or Lily’s, or Remus’. This isn’t on any of us.”

Sirius can’t breathe around the weight of the guilt he’s been carrying for the last fifteen years, but under James’ intense gaze, he feels it loosen the tiniest amount. 

“Do you understand me?” James says. “It _wasn’t your fault._ ”

They’re the words Sirius has longed to hear for _years_ now. Has been desperate for them but utterly convinced he was undeserving of them. 

(James’ words don’t make it magically better. Because unlike _Reparo_ -ing his godson’s glasses back together - honestly, what does he _do_ to them? - Sirius’ healing is going to take _time_. But it’s okay - he has all the time in the world now).

Sirius bows his head once more and cries. 

And his best friend wraps his arms around him, holds him tight, doesn’t let go. 

* * *

Later, after a near hysterical reunion with Lily - on his part, not Lily’s - he’s once again alone with his best friend. Sirius knows she was _bursting_ to ask about her son, about Remus, about everything, but she’s too good for any world, recognising how much he just needs James right now. She’s with Marlene and Dorcas for the night (who are here too? And a thing now?! Sirius has so many questions) but is taking him out to lunch the following day, and Sirius is already bracing himself for the Inquisition.

James has pressed a cool Butterbeer in his hands, put a David Bowie record on, and has them lie under the stars in his living room.

“You’re so fucking extra, Prongs,” Sirius says, but it’s too fond.

A grin curls on James’ lips. “Rich coming from the man who asked how he was supposed to sleep without his precious silk sheets.”

“I was _eleven-_ ”

“You were a posh twat, is what you were.”

“Like you were any better!”

James considers this. “Touché. Posh twats together then.” He clinks his glass against Sirius’, sloshing some over the side in his enthusiasm, straight onto Sirius’ face. 

“ _Merlin,_ what was that for?!”

“‘Twas an accident,” James smirks. 

“I don’t believe you when you look like that.”

“ _Such_ a drama queen.” 

(It’s the easiest thing in the world to slip back into their banter - like no time at all has passed, or like they’re still two arrogant, rambunctious boys jostling for the last chicken drumstick in the Great Hall. Sirius is _home_ ). 

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” Sirius sticks his tongue out, hastily deflects the Tongue-Tying curse James shoots his way. “ _Rude_.”

“Stop being a smart arse for five seconds-”

“ _So rude_ -”

James sighs noisily, flipping him off. “Forget it,” he says, suddenly sounding very tired.

Sirius sits straight upright, smile sliding away as easily as it had come. “No, I’m listening, Go on.” He mimes charming his mouth shut and sees the corner of James’ mouth twitch. He gives another sigh like he’s embarrassed and finally rolls to face Sirius.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“About what?”

“About all of it." 

"You mean. After you were gone?"

James nods, mouth tight like he's still ashamed of his request, and Sirius aches for him. "Of course, you dungbrain. All you had to do was ask."

And Sirius talks. 

He explains the absolute anguish of learning of James and Lily’s deaths, the crippling guilt of realising what Peter had done, against the euphoric atmosphere of a world celebrating that Voldemort was gone. _But at what cost?_

And somewhere in there, he lays out the joy of realising that _Harry_ lived, that this baby boy was responsible for the Dark Lord's downfall. 

He tells James about how lost he felt, how splintered his soul was, that the only thing he could pin it to was _making Wormtail pay_. James' eyes are unbelievably kind, loving even, despite Sirius describing the gruesome way he tracked the little rat down, how he'd cackled when only a bloody finger remained. 

" _Merlin,_ Padfoot, what were you _thinking_?" James murmurs and Sirius feels a blaze of righteous anger. 

"Tell me that you wouldn't have done the same if it were _me,_ or Lily, he'd betrayed."

James looks away then, eyes tracking a shooting star across the far wall. "You know I would," he says eventually. "But that doesn't make it wise."

"Yeah well, that's what Moony is for-" Sirius says it too carelessly, like it's not fucking _agony_ that he doesn't get to see Remus' _what-are-you-morons-plotting- now _smile ever again.

James says nothing, but his eyes are impossibly sad. 

"I'm not gonna apologise for it, stupid or not. I'm only sorry that it meant Harry had to go live with _those people_." He spits the words out like sucking venom from a snake bite, and James' head shoots up. 

"What people? Where were you?"

"The Dursleys," Sirius says softly, and James' eyebrows knit together, angry for the first time, until-

"And Azkaban. I was in Azkaban."

James sits up, watching him. He hugs his knees to his chest and stares and stares, expression unreadable. "I… I don't know what to say."

Sirius forces himself to grin. "The great James Potter, silenced at last. I _knew_ I could do it-"

"Don't _\- don't_ turn this into a joke that you - that you were in _that place-_ "

"Come on, Prongs, you gotta let me joke about my trauma, you know this!"

"But you were _innocent._ " James' voice is tiny and hurt.

It’s like a punch in the gut, the hurt. “It didn’t feel that way at the time. And I _wasn’t_ innocent - I thought I’d murdered Peter. And _enjoyed_ it.” 

(He hasn’t even told Remus that part, because Remus is Too Good to know that, he has seen too much, been through too much to bear that knowledge too).

There’s a long silence. 

Eventually, James breaks it: “how long?”

Sirius licks his lips, an anxious motion. “Twelve.”

“ _Months?_ ”

“Not months, no.”

James dips his head to his knees, and for one incredibly fucked-up second, watching his shoulders tremble, Sirius thinks _he’s fucking laughing_, but then he catches the hitch of James’ breath and is scrambling to him before he knows what he’s doing. 

“I’m _okay_ , Prongs. Look at me - I’m okay.”

“You’re _not_ okay, Sirius.”

He raises his head and it’s damp with streaking tears. James never calls him that.

Sirius can't bring himself to dwell too deeply on the Azkaban years. He's done enough of that in his nightmares, only his nightmares also encapsulate every waking moment. He doesn't scratch open that wound and bear his bloodied trauma for James to see. Because James doesn't need him to.

It's enough for James to know this much. 

“I got out though.” It’s a weak offering, like handing Knuts to the beggar despite the weight of Sickles in your pockets.

But James takes it, swipes a hand across his eyes, wipes his glasses on his shirt and grimaces. “How did you escape?” 

Sirius begins his monologue once more, tells James almost absent-mindedly that Azkaban feels how he imagined death to feel, but that he’d started to think death might be preferable. He only registers what he’s said when James sucks in a sharp gasp, hand snaking around Sirius’ wrist. And Sirius knows he’s remembering the summer after being kicked out, when James couldn’t get him out of bed for anything or anyone. (Sirius doesn’t tell James that Azkaban made that summer look like the time of his life). Instead, he ploughs on, detailing how learning Wormtail was _alive_ lit his fire in his blood, gave him a reason to _keep going._ He talks of how different the world he escaped into was, that even though Voldemort had fallen, Darkness lurked around every corner. 

“And then I met Harry.”

James swallows, and Sirius watches the bob of his Adam’s Apple. 

“Was he - did the Dursleys - did they take care of him?”

Sirius looks away, the guilt rising once more. He’d had _one_ job, and had failed so spectacularly that-

“Hey, stop that, Pads.”

“They fed him, mostly, and they gave him a bed. Even if it was under the stairs.”

“They - they _what_?”

When people describe anger, they often call it red-hot, fiery, blazing - as though the heat of it is what gives it power. But, Sirius thinks, they can’t have seen James Potter angry, because then they would know that _true_ anger is icicle daggers piercing hearts, chilling blood mid-flow, crushing thoughts like ice beneath boots. 

“One year, his second year, they decided he wasn’t going back to Hogwarts. Put fucking _bars_ on his windows.”

James is silent, but his hands are shaking, and Sirius probably shouldn’t give him any more, but _finally_ someone is acting as they _should_ \- Harry never understood his rage, Dumbledore dismissed it, even the Weasleys would shrug helplessly. 

Whereas James Potter would set the world on fire if it meant Harry was safe.

“ _Why_ did Dumbledore send him there? Why there? Why not _anywhere_ else?”

Sirius shakes his head. “I had that argument with him a hundred times over. Screamed myself hoarse in that stupid fucking office.” He hesitates. “I don’t know if Moony would want me to tell you this. But he tried to get custody of him. Because of me being, you know.”

James nods. “He would have been an amazing parent to him.” He looks down at his hands. “You both would.”

“Dumbledore said no. Said that he was too unstable, that his furry little problem made him too _dangerous_.”

James lets out a growl of frustration, lashes out at the sofa. “After _all_ those years we spent convincing him he was _safe_ and _good_.”

James’ hands are still trembling, his muscles coiled tight, ready to spring. So, Sirius lays it all out for him, as succinctly as he can, no longer relishing the way James’ anger transforms to despair, pain, heartbreak at everything his son has endured. Sirius lets him scream in frustration at the injustice of it all.

When, finally, James is a shell of himself, Sirius tucks himself into his side. “I can’t tell you how much he looks like you, Prongs. So many times, ‘James’ would slip out, and it’s only when he’d blink at me that I’d realise the eyes were all wrong. All Lily’s. Apart from that, it’s a mini-you. He’s even got your shit glasses.”

James clears his throat, but it’s still rough as he tries for a joke. “He must be quite the looker, then.”

Sirius grins, tips his head against James’ shoulder. “You wouldn’t believe the man he’s becoming, Prongs. So talented - he’s a Seeker! Not even you could work a broom like he can. And - Merlin, he cast a full-blown Patronus charm at thirteen, can you believe?”

“Really?”

“Saved my life and everything. And - guess what his Patronus is?”

James shrugs a little hopelessly.

“A _stag_ ,” Sirius says triumphantly, watching a cautious smile grace James’ face. 

“Really?”

“I swear it.”

James makes a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob, and Sirius _gets it._ He tightens his arms around James and just _holds_ him. “He has such a good heart, Prongs. He’s been through. Well. You know. But despite everything, he’s just so _good_. He wouldn’t even let me hurt Wormtail - he said you wouldn’t want that for us.”

There’s a long pause, and James quietly sobs for the son he never got to know. 

* * *

“What happened to Wormtail?”

“After he helped Voldemort rise again, you mean?”

James puts his head in his hands, a despairing moan. 

“I think he’s just up to his tricks again. It’s not clear what Voldemort’s planning - or at least. It wasn’t.”

James frowns, but doesn’t push the point. “And Moony?”

“I object to you asking about the love of my life after _him_ , you know?”

James rolls his eyes fondly. “You’re still together then?”

Sirius can’t help his soft, goofy smile - the one that Harry teases him for. “Yeah, we’re together again. It was a bit messy at the beginning, but we got there.”

“Messy, how?”

“As in, I was a complete wreck after Azkaban and he… he had spent twelve years thinking I’d killed you and Lils and Peter. Twelve years is a long time to be alone like that.”

They don’t talk anymore after that. James shifts, and suddenly there’s a goddamn stag spread on the rug. Blink again, and a shaggy black dog tucks itself between the stag’s front legs. 

The dog’s eyes drift shut relatively quickly, but the stag stays awake, watching the stars. 

* * *

Sirius approaches the afterlife with the same gusto he’d tackled mortal life. Sirius is always _doing_ \- can’t seem to sit still for long enough to actually have to _think_ , because thinking means _missing_ , and that hurts like hell. 

It doesn’t take him long to acquire a cottage near to James and Lily, with a shining black motorbike out the front. He takes the bike apart, pieces her back together with the utmost care and a few extra charms - because frankly, what’s the point of a bike that doesn’t _fly_? He drags James to every single one of Gideon’s Quidditch games, even the ones at stupid o’clock in the morning. He and Lily are cataloguing their way through every cafe in town with their coffee dates, and he spends hours cooing over the ducklings Dorcas and Marlene have somehow hatched and raised. Fabian takes Sirius shopping, encouraging him into coming home with a sheer crop top and skirt outfit that has James a little weak in the knees. 

James can’t help but notice that Sirius is always _there_ , and he’s not complaining - he wouldn’t dream of it - but he can’t help the concern. When they’re together, Sirius watches his friends like he’s afraid they’re going to fade before his eyes or become incorporeal. More than once, James wakes in the night to find a black dog sleeping at the foot of their bed. 

It takes James a while to bring it up with Sirius, but it’s when he wakes for the third night in a row to find dog-Sirius watching him with mournful eyes. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, jerking his head and sliding out of bed as gently as possible. Lily makes a soft noise, grasps for him, but settles quickly. 

James heads out of the back door in bare feet, enjoying the prickles of grass beneath his toes. He can sense Sirius behind him, even if he can’t make out the near silent pads of his paws. 

When they reach the swinging bench, James sits, pats the space next to him. The dog huffs, but then Sirius is sitting beside him.

“What’s going on with you?” It’s blunter than James intended, but Sirius has always preferred the direct approach.

There’s a silence for long enough that James thinks maybe Sirius is going to ignore him, but then. “Did I ever tell you how I died?”

“... No.” 

“It was Bellatrix.”

“Your _cousin_?”

“My family is beyond fucked up.”

“What happened?”

Sirius begins to explain, voice shaky as he talks about how Voldemort used Harry’s mind like a toy, how the Department of Mysteries turned into trap after twisted trap, the biggest trap of all of course being that Voldemort had lured Harry there. He describes the Veil, the fight, the frozen scream on Harry’s face, the broken yell on Remus’.

When he’s done, he’s not looking at James. “I miss them so much, Prongs.”

James doesn’t know what to say - he wants to say, “me too,” but he knows it’s not the same at all. So, instead he filters the meaningless platitudes out, and says gently, “you know you can talk to us about them?”

Sirius swallows. “I just feel like I’m rubbing it in your faces. All that time I spent with them and it still wasn’t enough.”

"Padfoot, I - I _love_ hearing you talk about them."

Sirius looks at him sharply. "You do?"

" _All_ I've been thinking about over the last decade is you and Harry and Remus… and getting that through you… it's a gift." 

“You sap.”

“Fuck off and tell me about my son.”

And so, James gathers crumbs of details about his son’s life, following Sirius’ scattered trail as he pieces together a glorious image of the man Harry is becoming. His tone is nothing but glowing affection, and it brings James such _joy_ to know how loved Harry is. 

Sirius talks of Remus too, though it’s different, of course. It’s _I-hope-Moony-remembered-to-eat-today_ and _god-Prongs-he-loves-you-both-so-much._ It’s heart-breaking and heart-warming in equal measure to know that the two men he loves most in the world are so deeply loved by one another. 

* * *

One day, a few months after Sirius’ arrival, beneath the setting sun fanning coral and gold across the sky, a stag and a dog are bounding across a field. The dog takes a swipe at the stag’s front legs and it stumbles, allowing the dog to streak in front, hurling itself over the wooden fence just barely ahead of the stag. 

“You _cheater_ ,” howls James.

Sirius grins from his lazy sprawl - both as a dog and a human, the cockiness is clear. “You snooze, you lose, Prongs.”

“I wouldn’t call _being tripped up_ snoozing.”

“Think of it as levelling the playing field. Your legs are longer than mine.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ri- _dick-_ ulous.”

“I forgot what an awful winner you are.”

“Better than a sore loser,” Sirius pokes his tongue out at him. 

James flops down beside him, still disgruntled. “Why’d you drag me out _here_ then?”

Sirius’ relaxed grin vanishes like it’s been charmed right off his face. “Need to ask you something.”

“And you couldn’t ask it at home?”

“Nah. Didn’t want Lils to hear.”

James tenses slightly, because he can imagine the kind of question Sirius is going to ask. What comes out of Sirius’ mouth takes him aback. 

“How did you stop being pissed at Wormtail?”

“What?”

“How’d you stop… you know, wanting to murder him for what he did?”

“I don’t know that I _have_ ,” James says, the honesty surprising him. “I’m still… I’m still fucking _furious_ with him.”

“But…?”

“But I guess I don’t want to kill him for it.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because…” James sighs. “Because it’s been fifteen years and now, I’m mostly just _hurt_ for him. And by him, obviously. But I... I pity him. What kind of person does that? What went so wrong for him that he thought that was his only option, you know?”

“You sound like Moony.”

“Yeah well, Moony’s a smart guy.”

Sirius sighs, heavy, tired, and James _knows_ that weight. “I just… I don’t know how to stop being _angry_ at him.”

“You do though, you know you’ve got to talk about this shit.”

Sirius moans dramatically. “Don’t make me!”

“You’ll get there, Padfoot.” There’s a long silence, and then James continues: “You know, you don’t have to use rage to survive anymore.”

A sharp look. Rapid blinking. A longer pause. 

Eventually, Sirius clears his throat. “D’you think he’ll ever show up here?”

“Wormtail?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright, _Snivellus_. Maybe, yeah.”

Sirius’ eyes are closed now, his tone easier. “Well, you’ll have to hold me back if he does.”

“You and Lily both.”

He cracks a grin. “I won’t kill him. Just want to bash his face in a little.”

“Oh, well _that’s_ alright then.”

“Excellent.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your favourite idiot though.”

James pretends to consider it, and Sirius lunges at him with a “ _shut it, you twat_ ,” a move that somehow ends up with Sirius lying across James, cuddling the _shit_ out of him.

(Sirius is much more tactile in death than James remembers. Perhaps it’s a consequence of twelve touch-starved years, but Sirius craves physical contact _constantly_. He’s always creeping up on Lily to surprise-hug-attack her, or pretending to wrestle James just to get some cuddle time in.

The only time he raises it with Sirius, he gets a smirk and an “I don’t know why you’re complaining, Prongs. Moony loved it when I-” James slaps a hand across Sirius’ mouth.

“I _don’t_ want to hear the end of that sentence.” Predictably, Sirius licks James’ palm, and James is _repulsed -_ loudly. He doesn’t bring it up again, because frankly, the hugs make him _happy_ and more importantly, they make Sirius happy).

* * *

It doesn’t take Sirius long to settle. He spends a lot of time outside, exploring deep into the surrounding forests and moors. Every full moon finds a black dog racing across the open space and howling for a wolf who can never hear him. 

(He wonders if Remus is somewhere out there, howling to Sirius too). 

James and Sirius begin to map out their area, Marauder-style, and quickly develop a reputation as Neighbourhood Clowns for their harmless but elaborate pranks. It makes James feel _alive_ like he hasn’t in years to be plotting beside his best friend again. 

The only time things splinter - and it’s not the only time they fight, but it’s the only time it _matters_ \- is when a drunken Sirius tells James, “you know, in a fucked-up way, you’re lucky you got your soulmate with you when you died.” James spits a Bat-Bogey Hex in response that lasts a full week, until Sirius meekly apologises.

There are tears and uncomfortable conversations, a heartfelt _I’m-so-sorry-I-just-miss-Moony-so-much-but-that-wasn’t-an-excuse_. It takes a few weeks longer before things return to some kind of normalcy – as normal as this strange world can be – but they get there.

And (after)life trundles on.


	3. Wormtail

The thing is, he can’t face them. 

Peter’s not sure why he’s here, because he sure as _hell_ doesn’t deserve to be. And he absolutely _cannot_ face the people who certainly do deserve to be. 

Hence, he has spent the last six miserable days of his new existence as Scabbers, squeezing himself into the watering can, darting beneath a rosebush, lurking inside a drainpipe whenever anyone approaches. From each vantage point, he watches, a strange tugging in his chest, at the easy, practiced dance James and Lily perform together. They do-si-do, and the world stops to watch, because they’re _that_ couple, and always have been. To know that they’re still just as utterly besotted with each other _hurts_ him, because _he did this_. 

It’s even worse when Sirius comes over, and Peter sees the camaraderie he has always envied, in shoulder squeezes, effortless banter, genuine grins.

The dark space beneath his rib cage where he thinks a heart once was feels like a cavernous pit of guilt and shame. Because… he could have had this too. He _did_ have this, for eight wonderful years, this kind of friendship was _his_.

Until. 

Well. 

And so, he watches and longs, but daren’t approach, daren’t even let himself be _seen,_ because _how can he?_ After everything he’s done, there’s no rebuilding this bridge - his materials lie in pieces at the bottom of the gorge he’s attempting to traverse. 

He made this bed, and now it’s time to lie in it.

* * *

Except, he knows James and Sirius better than this. Knows that James is stubborn as a mule, Sirius even more so, and that neither shy from a fight. 

He should have seen this coming. 

He doesn’t really know why he keeps coming back and watching - it’s more that he doesn’t know how to _leave_. For better or worse, their lives have always been intertwined like some Unbreakable Vow, and the pull of his old friends is all that occupies his mind. 

Peter has tracked James and Sirius to a park crammed with purple hyacinths, and is peeking through their fragrant bells to see James and Sirius on a nearby picnic bench. They’re leaning over the table, poring over something, and then James’ back stiffens-

And he looks-

_Impossible._

“Come out, Wormtail.”

Peter goes - what other choice does he have? 

* * *

For a second, Peter thinks it's the actual Marauder's Map spread on the picnic table, but a second glance shows that the snaking tendrils he’d assumed were the corridors of Hogwarts are actually mirroring the streets in this place. This version isn’t quite as detailed without Remus’ perfectionistic tendencies; some of the footsteps lag before stumbling to catch up with themselves, and the names are spelt incorrectly, but by and large, it’s a new Marauder’s Map.

And right there, in the bottom left section of the parchment is this park. Gathered around the tiny picnic bench, are three sets of footsteps: Sirius Black, James Potter… and Peter Pettigrew.

Peter forces his eyes from the Map and looks into the faces of the men he was once able to call his brothers.

James’ expression is unreadable, but there’s no misinterpreting the furious expression on Sirius’ face. 

Nobody speaks. Peter thinks he might have forgotten how to - doesn’t know how to start pulling the words from his throat and unjumbling them to resemble the beginnings of an apology. 

Instead he stands gormless and ashamed, and with every passing second, Sirius crosses from angry to murderous.

"You've got some _nerve_ ," Sirius eventually spits, and Peter flinches from it. His eyes dart back to James, though he's unsure why - it's not as if he deserves defending, and certainly not by the man he betrayed. 

"I-" Peter starts, but is cut off by the arrival of two painfully familiar women, arm in arm and beaming. 

Marlene flicks the map aside with a wave of her wand, then carefully floats the blanket over the surface. She catches sight of Peter first, smile vanishing into an icy glare. Meanwhile, Lily has banged the picnic basket down on the table. She presses a kiss to her husband's mouth, then to Sirius' cheek, and then she turns. 

Her expression morphs instantly, spiralling through emotions like a Boggart changing shape. She quickly joins Sirius in settling at murderous, lunging for Peter with a wounded howl. 

“ _You_. You - _bastard_!” 

Her fist catches his face with unexpected force, and Peter’s nose _explodes_ with pain. As bone crunches beneath her hit, tears spring to his eyes and he staggers - she’s strong, so much stronger than he remembered. _Merlin’s fucking beard,_ it _hurts_ so much. There’s blood in his eyes, vision blurred from the stinging tears, and it hurts, it hurts, _it hurts._

(But he deserves it, he deserves it, _he deserves it_ ). 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Lily is hissing, cradling her hand to her chest. They're all crowded around her, Marlene has an arm around her, and James is speaking in a low voice. If Peter were Scabbers right now, he'd be able to catch the hushed words, but he can't even begin to concentrate on that through the pain. 

Peter looks down, watching the blood drip onto the grass. 

_"Why is he still here?_ " he catches Marlene hiss, and he winces. _Why is he still here? _It's not like he has anywhere else to go, but why stay? It's not like they want him here. 

He dabs gingerly at his nose and begins padding softly away from them. Movement is painful, but so is being somewhere you’re unwanted.

(He's not sure if it hurts that they don't try to stop him or if he's grateful for it). 

He’s only gone a few steps when James catches him up. Peter can’t help but tense slightly, bracing for the fight he’d sure will come-

“Come with me. We’ll clean you up and get some Skele-Gro on that nose.”

Peter stares at him, but James’ expression is neutral. 

“What about Lily?”

It’s the first thing he’s said, and he almost gags as blood coats the back of his throat.

“Sirius and Marlene are looking after her,” James says. 

“Oh.”

They walk in silence, Peter trailing James back to his house, keeping his head low to avoid the stares of passers-by. He can feel them watching anyway, not helped by the obvious tension between him and James. It’s a relief when they reach the house.

“Sit,” James says, gesturing at the chair nearest the sink, and Peter obeys. “Right then,” James says. “Let’s see what we’re working with.” 

He gently wipes at the bloody mess with tissues, murmuring a soft apology as Peter twitches involuntarily. 

“She did a proper number on you, Wor-” James clears his throat. “She got you good.” 

It stings. Not just his nose. 

James pulls out his wand, and Peter tenses again. But once again, James doesn’t use the easy opportunity to punish Peter like he deserves - he’s _so much better_ than Peter. Granted, it wasn’t always this way; Severus Snape, for example, would certainly disagree. But for Peter, James’ hands stay gentle as he vanishes the blood from his face. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” James says quietly, tossing the bloody tissues in the bin.

“Me neither,” Peter manages. 

James takes out a shot glass and measures out a dose of Skele-Gro. It smokes ominously, the colour of piss, and Peter pulls a face as it burns on the way down. 

“Thank you,” he says anyway, because James doesn’t owe him any of this - doesn’t owe him anything at all. 

James nods, going to the sink to rinse his hands. 

It’s that awful quiet again - awkward, tense, neither wanting to be the first to speak. 

Peter has no clue how to handle this, but he knows he needs to say _something_. He needs to apologise and beg for forgiveness, except what comes out of his mouth is neither of those things:

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he blurts, and at the sink, James raises his head but doesn’t turn to look at him.

“What do you mean?” James’ measured voice is so foreign to Peter. So _empty_. ( _You_ did this).

“I… I’m not like you and Lily and Pad- and the others. I don’t belong here.”

“So why were you watching?”

“I -” He doesn’t have an answer. 

Everything in him is itching to make excuses for his behaviour, to whine and grovel, to appeal to James’ Need To Protect - this is what he once would have done. Except now, he can’t stop recalling the look on Harry’s face as Peter’s hands tightened around his throat - and he _can’t_ keep lying to him. He _can’t._

But nor can he explain himself. 

And so, he does the next best thing.

He runs - even though his head is throbbing, his nose aching, his bones literally knitting themselves together again. He darts out of the door and across the Potter’s garden, turning into Scabbers even as he hears James call out behind him. 

Peter _runs_. 

* * *

For days, Peter wallows in a shame so deep and infested with self-loathing that he barely moves. He drifts in and out of awareness, sometimes waking as Scabbers to scavenge some scraps, mostly replaying every terrible decision and heart-breaking betrayal that brought him to this place. 

He’s done this before, of course. 

In bed at night, he used to lay awake and think of the Muggles Voldemort had had him torture, maim, murder. There were too many to count - an endless cycle of nameless faces and relentless miseries. Peter isn’t sure at what point he stopped bothering to remember how many. But he can feel the place in his soul that cracked wide open as a result. He would replay their begs for mercy, their broken screams.

Worse though, were the ones who were in too much pain to even scream, their mouth stretched in silent agony, the true depth of their suffering only visible in their eyes. The stench of blood and decay used to cling in his nostrils and bury itself in his skin. Sometimes, he’s convinced remnants of it still linger in his hand; no matter how many _Scourgify_ charms he fires at it, its metallic scent is _too_ close to the copper of blood. 

He used to dream of the people he would have once called friends and the glassy-eyed, stiff-limbed corpses they had become: James and Lily, Emmeline, Amelia, Albus, Alastor… And the children - god, the _children_. Cedric Diggory’s obituary haunts him - they all do. They’re ghosts he can’t _see_ , though he knows they’re watching him. He wants to tell them _I didn’t cast the spell that did it! I didn’t want this for you!_ But they murmur back, _you may as well have done._

He often used to punish himself with thoughts of how different things could have been if only he had let the Dementors take him that night.

All the people who would have lived, all the suffering that could have been prevented. 

Or even further into his past - what if he had just kept his mouth shut, what if he had led them to the wrong dwelling, what if he hadn’t betrayed the only people who had never let him down? He wishes he could _Point Me_ to the instance where it all started to slip, where the hateful words being uttered, and unspeakable crimes being committed, had started to sound less repulsive. 

Because he can’t anymore. 

He doesn’t know which decision was the catalyst. He can never atone for the lives that stain his soul. All the Timeturners in the world couldn’t change that.

Peter has danced with the devils of a thousand _what ifs_. 

But the problem is, he’s always left with _himself_ when the music fades. 

* * *

He’s got to lay it all out to them, he realises. He needs to explain to them how much regret and shame lives rent-free in his chest - not because it will change anything, but because he _needs them to know_. He needs them to know that _yes_ , he’s a monster, _but._

(Sometimes, Peter wishes he were just that little bit braver, because the braver thing to do with all of this would be to just. End it all. It wouldn’t bring all of those lives back, but he wouldn’t have to live with that knowledge anymore. But Peter Pettigrew, the least Gryffindor-like Gryffindor who has ever lived or died, cannot bring himself to take that step). 

He needs to apologise that James and Lily’s son grew up unloved and unwanted ( _because of him_ ), that their lives were cut so tragically short ( _because of him_ ), that Sirius rotted in Azkaban for over a decade ( _because of him_).

And at the end of it? The guilt will not be any lighter, the shame no less severe. 

But perhaps - _perhaps_ \- it will be a little easier to bear.

(Sometimes, the bravest thing to do is _live_ ). 

* * *

James opens the door before Peter has even closed the gate behind him. Lily is beside him, Sirius their shadow. The note that Peter sent via scops-owl yesterday (after several days of false starts, scratchings-out, crumpled parchment) is clutched in James’ grip. 

Peter walks up the path to meet them and stops a few feet short of the door. 

He has never been so afraid in his life. 

Not even in his dying moments as his own hand turned traitor, nor at Voldemort’s rebirth, nor when facing Sirius and Remus and the whispers of everything he’d done. 

Nobody speaks. 

Sirius’ eyeliner is sharp as a blade. Lily twirls her wand in slender, talented fingers, but that scares him less than the look in her eyes. James is a stranger to him with such a blank face.

“To be clear,” Lily says, her voice strong. “This isn’t us forgiving you. This is us giving you a second chance.”

“A second chance we don’t think you deserve,” Sirius mutters, and Lily pinches him. 

( _Time to be brave_ ). 

Peter takes a breath. 

And begins.

* * *

“... And I can _never_ make up for everything I did. I know that now. I fucked up - I fucked _everything_ up, and I just kept on doing it because I was so afraid of what would happen if I stopped. That’s not - that’s not an excuse. At all. 

“I’m not asking you to forgive me - I couldn’t ask that of you. I don’t… I don’t deserve that. But I _am_ sorry for what I did - for all of it. I regret it more than I can ever express and every single day, I think of them and wish I could -

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I betrayed you and allowed the Dark L- no, _Voldemort_ to kill you. I’m sorry that Harry had to go and live with those people. I’m sorry I let the world believe Sirius killed me, and I’m sorry for every single day he spent in Azkaban. I’m sorry for what that did to Remus.

“I’m sorry I helped V-Voldemort rise again, and hurt Harry to do it. I’m sorry for how Sirius died. I’m sorry for _everything_ that’s happened since. All the people I’ve hurt.

“I will never stop being sorry. And it doesn’t change anything that I’ve done, but I needed you to know how sorry I am. And… if you need me to. I will go and leave you alone and you’ll never have to see me again. But I couldn’t leave without… without you knowing how sorry I am.”

* * *

The longest silence Peter has ever known ensues. 

He is entirely empty, like pouring the words out of himself has made all the life clamber from his body too. It’s a terrible kind of numbness, but he’s grateful for it, because the silence would otherwise be crawling over his skin and abusing his insides.

James and Lily are looking at each other, in a way that Peter used to think was just lovesick, but now realises is so much more. They’ve finally had the time he cut short to develop a whole silent language. Lily tips her head to the side, and nods, and James looks to Sirius. It used to drive Peter _crazy_ with envy how much they communicated without ever needing to speak. Now it just makes him sad.

And the silence stretches on. 

Peter’s nerves are finally returning to him, beginning with a tingling in his fingers and toes, when at _last_ James speaks. 

“It’s going to take time.” He steps from the doorway and stands before Peter. “We’re going to need time. But we don’t want you to go.”

“You don’t?” It’s more than Peter had dared to hope, so much so that part of him wonders whether Sirius will burst forward with a hex and a “just kidding!”

(He doesn’t).

“No,” Lily has stepped forward, hand entwining with James’. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

“And we still don’t trust you,” Sirius has joined them, a little reluctant perhaps, but _there_ all the same. 

“Understandable,” Peter says softly. 

For a moment, nobody knows what to do with themselves - if it weren’t for the enormity of everything between them, if they were other people, this would have been the moment for a group hug. 

Instead, they awkwardly stand there until James clears his throat.

“We - uh - we’ll see you soon, Peter.”

Peter nods and watches them turn back to the house. For the first time in as long as Peter can remember, he allows a tiny bud of hope to poke its head out.

* * *

Of course, it isn’t as simple as that. 

At first, there are walks he’s invited on that are packed with uncomfortable silences, with Peter trailing the rest of the group, his crimes dampening the mood. The pub meets he goes on are even worse, because the drunker his friends become, the more they like to reminisce. And as it turns out, Peter has managed to shit on every nostalgic ‘ _remember when…’_ with his actions. 

Peter goes, though, every single time; he’s afraid if he declines, they will stop asking. 

To everyone’s surprise, it’s Sirius who breaks through first.

Peter opens the door to him (he’s finally organised himself a bungalow in the neighbourhood, a few streets from his friends to give them Space), and automatically glances over his shoulder for James or Lily.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Sirius says, chin jutting out in that defiant way it did at Hogwarts.

“Okay...? Do you, uh. Do you want to come in?”

A pause. “Okay, sure.”

Peter leads him into the kitchen, flushing a little at the mess he’s left on the counters. “Meant to wash that up, sorry, let me just-”

“Some things never change,” Sirius says, but it’s got less of a biting chill. 

“D’you want a beer?”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

Peter opens two bottles and hands one to Sirius. “Want to sit?”

“What? No. Nah.”

It’s so _stilted_ between them and Peter _loathes_ it. At least when things are this uncomfortable with the others, there are more of them to act as buffers. Now, Peter stands awkwardly against the side. He anxiously picks at where the condensation has loosened the label of the bottle and waits for Sirius to speak.

“I wanted to ask you… well, I guess you probably know what I’m going to ask.” Sirius takes a swig, and Peter notices for the first time that Sirius too is fiddling anxiously - with the rings adorning his fingers. 

“About Harry?”

“No - I mean - maybe, sure, but I heard what you said to Prongs and Lils, so. Uh. No, I wanted to ask you about Moony.”

“Oh.”

“Do you, uh. Was he doing alright when you…?” Sirius grips the back of a kitchen chair tightly.

“Uh…”

“ _Please,_ Wormtail. Peter. Whatever. _Please._ ”

“I know he’s still alive. Or at least, he was when I died. But... I didn’t really hear much about him in the last couple of years,” Peter says hesitantly. He doesn’t know how much to tell Sirius - will it help him to know about Tonks, to know that Remus wasn’t alone in the grief of all of his loved ones leaving him? Or will it only hurt him further?

“But you know _something_. Come on, Peter. You owe me.”

(He does). 

“I don’t want to upset you,” Peter says, and Sirius looks taken aback.

“Did something happen to him?”

“No - I… I don’t know how to say this.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Wormtail, spit it out.”

“He’s married. He married your cousin. The Metamorphmagus one.”

“ _Tonks_?!”

Peter nods, watching Sirius warily. Sirius looks utterly stunned, he opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out.

“It must have happened pretty quickly.” Sirius’ silence is making Peter even more anxious, and he rushes to fill the gaps. “But I don’t know much about it. I think they… the rumour is that Tonks is pregnant-” Sirius’ eyes snap to Peter and he flinches. “But that was just a rumour. I don’t know.”

More silence. “I’m sorry, Sirius - I -”

“Thank you for telling me,” Sirius’ voice is very quiet. 

It’s Peter’s turn for a stunned silence now. 

“You know, that’s probably the most honest you’ve been with me in years.” Sirius takes another swig of his beer. Then another. He drains the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t ask when he goes to open a new bottle. 

Peter finds his voice at last. “Do you… do you want to talk about him?”

Sirius looks bemused again. “You don’t want to hear me go on about all that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Peter says, surprising himself even with how much he means it. “I know you loved him. A lot. And he loved you too. So much. So. If you want to talk about him, I can listen.”

Silence yet again.

But maybe, silence isn’t always a bad thing. 

“Alright, Wormtail.” Sirius drops into a seat, and Peter follows suit. 

(The nickname means more to him than it should, all things considered, but Peter treasures it all the same). 

And Sirius begins to talk. He misses Remus more than anything, it turns out, and the words gush from him in a fluid, emotional stream of adoration and longing. 

(Outside of this, Sirius is quiet for a time when it comes to Remus. He’s no less enthusiastic about his arse, or sappy about his heart, but a thoughtfulness takes over and he turns inward, quiet. He must be hurting - because how could you not be upon learning this - but it’s more than that. Peter just hasn’t quite figured it out yet).

* * *

Peter knows he can’t prove himself to his old friends, even if he wanted to. The afterlife is not a dangerous place and they lack for nothing except their living loved ones. He’s never been strong enough at magic to plan an elaborate surprise for them like James or Sirius might have done. 

And so, instead, he works in consistency and quiet support. 

He’s there when they’ll allow him to be. He makes himself scarce when they need space. 

Sirius comes to him often to talk about Remus, but gradually, he begins to share snippets from the rest of his afterlife - how he and James spent those early days, how he likes to run under a moonlit sky and pretend they are all back in the Forbidden Forest. 

At first, Lily enlists him into helping her with household chores - cooking and gardening, mainly, because it’s easier to have conversation, however difficult, with a mind half-occupied. They’re starting to need the buffers less and less frequently though, and, better still, she hasn’t punched him again yet.

As for James, many of their early interactions feel scripted in awkwardness, but slowly, James is finding his feet in making fun of Peter as he used to, and Peter is learning to pass it back. Never before has banter been such an orchestrated exercise, but it’s worth it for the occasions James tips his head back and laughs raucously because of _him_.

Peter will never stop being sorry, but he’s learning to accept that these days. The guilt and the shame weigh heavy, but they are somewhat bearable when he’s with the people he loves, who are learning to love him again. 

Forgiveness is a slippery thing though. 

The day James lets ‘Wormtail’ slip from his mouth without correcting himself jars with the day he can barely look at Peter. Sometimes, Lily will sit and talk to him for hours about a particular potion she’s experimenting with, and sometimes, she’ll go quiet and excuse herself within minutes. Sirius’ mood swings are unexpected and loud, but they ebb and flow. 

For now, Peter takes each day as it comes. He holds each precious jewel of friendship, cradles it safe in his hands, and weathers the storms until they pass to smoother waters. 

“Hey, Wormtail. Come over for dinner tonight!”

It’s the first dinner he’s been invited to. 

It’s not forgiveness.

It’s more than he deserves.

And it’s a start.


	4. Moony

As in life, Remus is the last to join their little group. 

The day he finally comes dawns like any other day, with a strawberry ice cream sky melting into clear blue. Sirius watches it turn from the crook of a tree, without realising that the man he loves has just opened his eyes to this strange new world. James wakes with Lily cradled in his arms - which are numb as usual - but the way she’s tangled herself around, skin to skin, makes the tingling pain worth it. Peter feels the warmth of the rising sun tickling his cheek and bats it away, ducking back under swaddling covers. 

And Remus sits up in wonder.

* * *

He’s never been one for early mornings, but he watches this sunrise with a potion of sorrow-acceptance-joy-peace bubbling away inside him. It’s the calmest he’s felt in months, perhaps even years, for once the anxiety of a never-ending war does not weigh on his chest, because - somehow - he _knows_.

He knows Harry will have saved the world, because as much as has been laid before that boy’s shoulders (young, too young to bear such responsibility and pain), Harry has never walked away from a fight. He’s too _good_ to lose this one. 

(Remus deliberately doesn’t think of Teddy, because the thought of his beloved boy growing up as an _orphan_ is - he can’t think of it right now. The guilt of it is crushing and Remus has barely learnt how to breathe again. It’s not that he doubts his son will be cared for, it’s the grief of not being able to see him grow, to provide that care, to tell him directly how loved he was, rather than through Andromeda’s lips). 

There’s a soft sigh from behind him, as Tonks stretches catlike. She kneels behind him, wraps her arms around his waist, kisses his cheek with the same tentative joy Remus is battling. He turns his face to her, loops their fingers together, and returns the kiss. It’s achingly tender, reaching into the ashamed, anxious parts of him and murmuring _me too_. They make an unspoken agreement that it’s too raw to acknowledge right now, pressing their foreheads together and feeling their grief mingling. Eventually, she draws back and runs a hand through her hair - spiked mauve like delicate frosting. 

“So.”

“So.” Remus echoes, and he can’t explain the flurry of nerves that rushes through him at her tone.

“What happens now?”

Remus shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Tonks is watching him, her head tipped to one side. “Do you think they’re here?”

“Who?” Remus can’t meet her gaze, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes _hard_.

“Don’t be a _fuckwit_ , love. You know who I’m talking about.”

There’s a lump in his throat, because of course she’s pinpointed on the one thing he’s been unable to shake since waking here: the desperate hope that maybe - _maybe_ \- Sirius and James and Lily got to wake up here too. The thought of seeing them here is indescribably _vast_ , but overriding it is an anxious knot in his chest that whispers _and what if they’re not here_? There’s also a web of guilt, and Remus is used to guilt, but yet another ring forms as he thinks about his wife knowing what he _really wants to know right now_. The guilt swells, web tangling up everything else in its path. 

Remus swallows around the lump. “I-” he tries, but to his horror, his voice cracks on the syllable, and his eyes are oddly hot, and Tonks watches with such _knowing_ pity. “I _love_ you,” he manages, and Tonk’s face cracks open, concerned and caring. 

“I _know_ , Remus, I _know_ that.” She tugs on his hands until he sags against her, wraps her arms around him tight, and kisses his crown of messy waves. “And you know I love you too. But you love him too.” She pushes his hair from his eyes, “you need a haircut,” she says a little distractedly, as if her words haven’t speared Remus’ heart like a wooden stake. 

"I'm sorry," Remus says softly, and he means it. He’s letting her down _again_ , he can never seem to be everything she needs him to be, and it’s _horrible._

“ _Remus._ Stop being a dungbrain.”

“I’m so - what?”

“Why are you apologising for who you love like it ruins anything?” Tonks’ eyes are bright turquoise, and they’re boring into him. “I’ve always known you loved Sirius; you don’t stop loving someone when they _die_.” 

Her eyes drift to the chain around his neck - the thin silver links holding his wedding ring (a silver band, simple, set with a tiny moonstone) as well as one of Sirius’ signet rings (a black opal nestled in twisted silver). 

“But - now that we’re _here,_ I-”

Tonks’ arms tighten around him again. “Stop telling me the reasons you think you don’t get to be happy.”

“But I _am_ happy with you, I-”

“ _Merlin_ , you know what - _Silencio!_ ” Tonks’ wand comes from nowhere, and as Remus opens his mouth to protest, the words wither in his throat. “Ahh, blessed peace.” She smiles, and, as it always does, the sight of it settles something anxious and fluttering in his chest. “Now. Listen to me. This is going to be an adjustment, but I’m _telling_ you, your happiness matters more to me than anything. And Sirius made you really fucking happy. I know - I know, I do too,” she rolls her eyes, as Remus makes a silent protest. “But we can make this work. Don’t get me wrong - it’s gonna be an adjustment. But we have _time_ , love.”

Remus has that vast sensation in his chest again, but he can feel the web dissolving in it. Remus isn’t a selfish man, but this feels like the selfish option. Does he really get to be this lucky? Tonks is _more than he deserves._ Sirius is his first love. And maybe. Just maybe, he gets to have them both - if Sirius is here and if Tonks really _is_ okay with it, and isn’t just saying that because she thinks he needs to hear it, and-

“Nuh-uh,” Tonks taps the side of his head with the tip of her wand. “What’re you overthinking _now_?”

Remus raises an eyebrow, points at his mouth. 

“Well, are you done being stupid?” Tonks says with a grin.

Remus pretends to think, and Tonks cackles. She cups his cheek, drawing him in for a long slow kiss that’s all _you’re mine, I adore you,_ _be kinder to yourself_ , and Remus returns with _I don’t deserve you, thank you, you’re my everything_. As they part, Tonks murmurs the counterspell, and Remus feels her smile against his lips.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s woefully inadequate, but Tonks _gets_ it. Because she gets _him._ In all his inadequacies.

“Go get him,” she returns.

“If he’s even here.”

“Oh, he’s here.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a feeling.” 

Remus stands, bends to kiss Tonks again. As they break apart, Tonks smacks his arse, and it startles a laugh out of Remus that feels _wonderful_. Merlin, it’s good to laugh.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Nah, take your time, love.”

“But-”

“You’ve waited long enough for each other.”

“How are you so…?”

“Amazing? Incredible? The best wife ever?” Tonks is grinning broadly, but he can see the concern in her eyes. It’s concern _for_ him though, rather than because of him, and he loves her for it. 

But she’s right - he loves Sirius too.

* * *

It doesn’t take him long to find Sirius.

He doesn’t even need to ask the friendly faces he’s passing; it’s like there’s a tugging in his chest, growing stronger with each step he takes. 

And then he catches sight of the motorbike, gleaming black and silver beneath the sun, and he _knows_. The final few steps up the path to the house take seconds that trickle by like hours, and Remus stands breathless before the front door.

Remus is trembling with nerves, but he's also tired of being afraid of what he wants. He puts a tentative hand on the door, anxiety a fully-fledged beast in his chest, and knocks.

And Sirius -

Opens

The

Door. 

* * *

_Finally._

He looks older than Sirius remembers, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth having deepened and lengthened. There are more scars streaking bright white across his darker skin, and the bags beneath his eyes have only grown. He's thinner, too, all sharp angles and edges. 

But _Merlin_ , if Sirius doesn't want to ravish him right there and then. Because he's still _Remus_ ; his eyes still shine like liquid amber, his smile is worn, yes, but oh-so-warm and gentle. 

“ _Moony,_ ” he breathes.

* * *

“ _Padfoot_.”

They hover in front of each other for an unsure half a second, and then Sirius throws himself at Remus, burying his face in Remus’ chest, filling his nose with bergamot-engine-oil-grass-after-rain- _joy_ , and Remus is _home_. 

Sirius’ arms are so tight around Remus, it’s as though he’s trying to keep him from floating away - even when he raises his head to look at Remus, his grip remains.

“I can’t believe you’re _here_ , Moony.”

“It’s so good to see you.”

“Understatement of the fucking century.”

Remus laughs, and Sirius _beams._

“Fuck, I’ve missed that laugh. Kept me waiting long enough, you git.”

“You can blame Dolohov for that. Just couldn’t get it right.”

Sirius’ smile fades a little, and he raises a hand to Remus’ cheek, stroking along one of his newer scars with such tenderness, Remus feels the lump rising in his throat once more. 

“He always was a useless prick.”

“I don’t know, he got me eventually, didn’t he?”

Remus takes a deep breath and takes the hand Sirius has resting on his arm. Sirius goes very still, and Remus forces the anxiety _down,_ because not now - not on the precipice of getting everything he’s ever wanted. He keeps his eyes on Sirius’, admiring the stormy whirlpools and seeking any sign of discomfort, as he raises their joined hands to his lips. Sirius’ eyes flutter shut as Remus’ kisses their hands, and then he’s pulling on Remus’ arm, dragging him over the doorstep, banging the door shut, and shoving Remus up against it.

Their mouths meet in a messy clash of tongue, lips, teeth - but it’s _perfect_ , like two waves rushing to meet, their lips briefly squabble for dominance, before sinking into one fluid motion like they were never apart. It’s hungry, desperate, longing, Sirius’ hands tangling in Remus’ thick hair, Remus snagging his in the curls brushing Sirius’ shoulders, the familiarity of it all overwhelming and intoxicating. 

Sirius draws back, panting a little, already dishevelled from Remus’ fingers in his hair. “Bedroom?” he asks lowly, and Remus nods before the question is over. With a growl, Sirius grabs Remus’ hand and Apparates.

Disoriented, Remus stumbles back on to the bed that’s suddenly behind him, and _laughs._ “Dramatic, much, Pads?”

“It’s like you don’t even _know_ me, Moony.”

He crawls on Remus’ lap, latching his legs either side and kisses him so hard, Remus practically melts into the mattress, losing himself in the exhilaration of being kissed by Sirius for the first time in years. Sirius pulls back, begins unbuttoning Remus’ shirt, but the distance is too much, and Remus impatiently flings it off before dragging Sirius back down.

Sirius begins trailing suckling kisses down his neck and chest, pausing as he elicits a throaty moan from Remus, and grinning. 

“I’ve missed that sound.”

Remus would be embarrassed if it weren’t Sirius, but Sirius has heard him be far _louder_ and crasser, and he’s far too aroused for shame right now. 

“Off,” he says instead, pointing at Sirius’ shirt, and Sirius chuckles.

“Eloquent as ever, Moony.”

He pulls the shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it away, and Remus groans at the sight of him shirtless, beautiful, _here_ \- “ _fuck_ , you’re gorgeous.”

Sirius hovers above Remus for a moment - long enough that Remus feelings the stirrings of discomfort about the state of his _own_ body; he’s never been toned like Sirius, and he’s painfully aware that his ribs are more prominent than they ought to be, that his scars are in the process of healing, that he doesn’t look like he _used_ to look-

But then Sirius’ lips are back on his, and Remus forgets to think, forgets to doubt, forgets everything except the sheer pleasure of Sirius’ body against his, inside his, all over his.

* * *

“I’ve missed you so much,” Sirius murmurs later. He’s curled against Remus’ chest, Remus’ arm around him, their sweat cooling on their skin, each other’s taste in their mouths. 

(Home). 

“Me too,” Remus says, dropping a kiss to Sirius’ head, just because _he can_. 

(Home).

There’s a comfortable pause, and then Sirius raises himself on one elbow to look Remus in the eye. “Can we talk about something?”

And Remus’ heart sinks.

“Sure?”

“Do you know what I’m going to ask?”

Remus sighs. “I think so.”

“Tonks.”

Remus nods, feeling the familiar anxious weight settle where Sirius’ head had rested only minutes earlier. “How did you know?”

“Two reasons. One,” he gives a gentle tug on the chain around Remus’ neck, and Remus flushes. Sirius splays a hand on Remus’ chest, idly playing dot-to-dot with freckles and scars. “Two: Wormtail.”

“Wormtail’s _here_?”

Sirius waves an impatient hand. “Yes, love, but I don’t wanna talk about him when I’m naked with you.”

“But you want to talk about my- Tonks?”

“Touché.”

There’s a pause, Sirius’ hand resting right on top of Remus’ heart now, and surely, he can _feel_ how hard it’s beating with nerves. 

“Where do you want to start?”

“How did it happen?”

Remus sits up, drawing the covers up around his chest, even though he’s not cold - the chill is within. Sirius watches him with an unreadable expression. “It was after you went through the Veil. I… I wasn’t coping very well, and Tonks was just. There.”

Sirius tentatively reaches out and clasps Remus’ hand. When he meets no resistance, he curls up a little closer to Remus, keeping his eyes on his face. 

“At first, it was a physical thing. I was just desperate and so fucking lonely. And apparently, she’d always had a thing for me, and it just… happened.”

“She… she took advantage -?"

" _No,_ Merlin, no. She would never… _never_ do that. I couldn’t be left alone, and she wouldn’t let me, and…” Remus swallows. It’s hard to talk about those days, even after so many years. The crushing isolation, the overwhelming loss, coupled with his usual dark thoughts made for a dangerous concoction and it _hurts_ to remember such pain. Sirius squeezes his hand, drawing him back to the present, and Remus sighs, "it was just. Really bad. The worst it's ever been. It… it's a right mess in there." He taps the side of his head with a rueful smile, unable to counter the shame in spite of himself. 

Sirius has gone very tense, and Remus recognises the old expression of powerlessness in the line of his body. 

(What he doesn’t say, but what Sirius hears anyway: I couldn’t be left alone because I didn’t want to _be_ anymore).

“I made it though,” Remus says, returning Sirius’ squeeze gently. “I made it, and Tonks was a big part of that. And somewhere along the way, I realised I was falling for her.”

Sirius nods, but says nothing, and Remus swallows before continuing. “It took me ages to accept what was happening. Couldn’t get my head out of my arse. First I felt so guilty that I had feelings for someone that wasn’t _you_ \- that was a whole other breakdown.” Remus rubs his face with his free hand. “And then I was just… _convinced_ I didn’t get to be that lucky twice. What was someone like _her_ doing pining after an old, heartbroken monster like me?”

“ _Moony,_ ” Sirius murmurs, his voice heavy with sorrow. He raises their hands, presses them to his lips, and then clasps them to his chest. 

“I know, I know. Except Tonks is about as stubborn as _you_ -” Sirius grins “-and she wasn’t having any of my moping. After Dumbledore’s murder, in the Hospital Wing, she just… burst out with it. In front of _everyone_.”

Sirius laughs. “ _Merlin,_ you must have hated that.”

Remus smiles. “Yes and no. She knew what I needed to hear, and she wasn’t afraid to say it.”

“And then?”

“Then… I admitted my feelings for her too, and… things moved very quickly after that. We… I think we were both so tired of losing people…” Remus fingers the rings absently. “... and we just thought ‘fuck it,’ what’s the point in waiting? So… we got married.”

Sirius’ eyebrows shoot up. “I mean, I feel like you’re skipping over a lot here, Moony-”

Remus laughs, “not really,” he says, his tone more wistful than intended. “It was quick - we… we really didn’t have long together. But. I’d made the mistake of not making the most of my time with you, and I couldn’t bear to repeat that.”

There’s a long silence. “We would have got married?” Sirius says, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Remus flushes, but stands his ground. “I would have given anything to marry you.”

Sirius covers his face with his hands, and Remus panics, “I mean-”

“You can’t just _say_ stuff like that, Moony, I can’t-” Sirius lowers his hands, and Remus realises his eyes bear the silver shine of tears.

“ _Padfoot_ ,” he says softly, “come here.”

Sirius goes, shuffling towards Remus and folding against him so close, they become one. Remus wraps his arms around him, presses a kiss against Sirius’ forehead.

“I love you,” Sirius says, very quietly.

It feels like the easiest thing in the world to say it back. 

“I love you too.”

Sirius falls into a comfortable silence, his eyes distant as he Thinks, but for Remus, it’s anything _but_ comfortable. There’s something else on the tip of Remus’ tongue, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to let it out, but it rushes out as he opens his mouth to say something else entirely.

“I have a son.”

Sirius’ head turns so fast Remus can feel the crackle of bones against his chest, hair whipping exposed skin. 

“ _What_?”

There’s no taking it back now. No way to carefully mop those words up. And so he plunges on.

“Tonks got pregnant unexpectedly. And… I was an arse and a coward, but that’s unimportant now - we have a son. He’s called Edward - well, Teddy, really.”

“Like Ted?”

“After him, yes.”

Sirius is quiet for a long while now, and the anxiety chews at Remus’ insides, chomping in time with the rapid beats of his heart. 

“Will you tell me about him?” Sirius says eventually, and something in Remus’ chest snaps, like a band of tension giving way.

“I… We barely got the chance to know him - he was only a month old really when we died. But I-” Remus’ voice shakes, and he snaps his mouth shut, clenching his jaw to stop it from trembling. 

“It’s okay, love,” Sirius brushes a finger under Remus’ lashes, catching the tear that hovers there.

“I - I _want_ to tell you, I just-”

“Another time,” Sirius soothes, and Remus lets him. It’s too fresh right now, the pain and injustice of it all is too much too soon, and for the same reasons neither he nor Tonks could speak of him, it feels like being torn open to do so now. “We’ve got time.”

Sirius holds him for a long time after that, the sun shifting slowly around the room as Remus lets the strength of Sirius’ love hold his fragile soul together. 

* * *

Later - the sky starting its descent into peach and tangerine:

“Tonks is here too?” 

“Yes, we - we were killed at the same time. Actually, Bellatrix killed her too.” Remus smiles, even though it’s the furthest thing from funny that Bellatrix Lestrange murdered the two loves of his life. 

“Well it sounds like I owe her a thank you.” 

Remus frowns, “ _Bellatrix?”_

“Fuck, no, she can go die, preferably slowly and painfully. Tonks, I mean.”

“A thank you for…?”

“Keeping you alive when it was the last thing you wanted.” Remus flinches a little, but Sirius only holds him tighter. “Loving you. Making you happy. Letting you come here, even though it can’t have been easy.”

“She’s more than I deserve,” Remus says. He’s never doubted this fact, but every minute he spends in Sirius’ arms is another scrap of proof to support the theory.

“No,” Sirius says, “because you deserve _everything_. But she’s done a pretty fucking brilliant job.”

Remus licks his lips, can’t help but grin as Sirius’ eyes latch on to the motion. Even if his smile fades as he works to get the next question out: “What happens now?”

Sirius sighs - heavy, tired, sad - and Remus’ heart sinks.

( _Why did you even let yourself hope? You knew you weren’t good enough to get this, you fucking moron, you-)_

"I'm not very good at sharing," Sirius says slowly, and Remus' head shoots up. "Especially not the things I love this much." He looks Remus in the eye, and Remus dares to _hope._ "But, for you, Moony. I’m not giving you up again.”

Hope sets itself ablaze inside him, reaching the dark lonely corners of his heart and pouring warmth till he’s set to overflow with it. He’s got a stupidly broad smile on his face, but it’s unshakeable, rooted firmly in joy, and Sirius grins back at him with bright, diamond eyes. 

His lips meet Sirius’ like they were made for one another, carved to slot so perfectly together. They topple back into the sheets, hope blossoming into something wilder and desperate; Sirius fucking Remus till he forgets his own name, Remus swirling a tongue around the head of Sirius’ cock, delighting in his shudders of ecstasy-

(He hopes it never stops feeling like coming home). 

* * *

Sirius has just left the bathroom through billowing clouds of steam - clean of their mingled sweat and cum at last - when there’s a sharp rap at the door, and Sirius _freezes._

“ _Shit,_ ” he hisses, leaping into action. He seizes jeans off the floor, realises one leg in that they’re back-to-front, and crashes down. “ _Fuck_!”

“What’s wrong?” Remus hops down from the bed, already clean and dressed (it was _never_ going to happen if they tried to shower together), and deftly plucks Sirius underwear up, tossing it his way.

“Prongs is gonna _kill_ me.”

“Wait - that’s Prongs?!”

Sure enough, James’ voice comes through the door. “Padfoot. Open up!”

Remus has longed to hear James’ voice for years now, has yearned for the familiar clipped vowels and warm tenor. The sound of it now takes his breath away.

“He said I had to wait to shag you until _after_ he’d hugged you.”

Remus laughs and Sirius looks scandalised. “It’s not _funny,_ Moony, help me!”

He buttons his shirt up, misaligning them hopelessly, but there’s no time to fix it because at that moment, there’s the unmistakable sound of _Alohamora_ clicking Sirius’ lock open, and James’ footsteps on the stairs.

“You’re _late_ , Padfoot. Stop fussing over your hair, and-”

James stops dead in the doorway. 

“ _Moony?_ ” he whispers, steeped in disbelief.

He looks just as Remus remembers him - black hair springing up at all angles, hazel eyes bright, impossibly handsome - and Remus can’t help but stare.

“You’re _here,_ ” James says, his tone still incredulous. He takes a half-step towards Remus, and then suddenly Remus comes to his senses, tackling James in a hug. James immediately wraps him up tight, disbelieving laugh rumbling in his chest. “You’re finally fucking _here_!”

James steps back, holds Remus at arm’s length and stares up and down. Remus shuffles awkwardly, knowing how much older, frailer, sadder he must look to James’ perpetual youth, but James is _beaming_.

Sirius trips as he shoves a sock on, and James’ focus flickers to him, eyes narrowing as he takes in the state of the room. 

He turns accusatory eyes on them both. “I can’t _believe_ you were too busy fucking to come and say hello!”

“We weren’t fucking the _whole_ time,” Sirius says, as if that’s remotely placating. 

“It sure smells like it."

“Fuck off, Prongs.”

Remus bursts out laughing, because _fuck_ , it’s so good to hear them bicker together again. They turn to him, one disgruntled, one confused, before their mouths begin twitching in unison, and they break into laughter too. Remus wants to capture that moment, seal it up in an envelope and lock it in his heart. 

“ _Merlin_ , it’s good to see you, Moony,” James says, and Remus grins right back.

“You too, Prongs.”

It should feel awkward after all these years - even long-lost friends ought to feel like strangers, but it doesn’t. James invites Remus over to dinner with them like it’s the place he was headed to all along, he ribs Sirius about being late the whole way over with Sirius giving as good as he gets, and he slings his arm around Remus’ shoulders like it belongs there. 

(James also doesn’t miss the way Sirius reaches for Remus’ hand, nor the infatuated look in Remus’ eyes - but that’s for later).

Their house is a stone’s throw from Sirius’, but James flings the door open like he’s returning from battle. “Got ‘em!” he yells, throwing a conspiratorial grin at Remus. “Got room for one more?”

“What’re you-?” Lily comes from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She catches sight of Remus and _shrieks_ , hurling herself in his direction with another cry, “ _Remus!”_

Remus doesn’t know that his heart can get any fuller - he feels like the joy is spilling over from every single part of him and his jaw aches a little from smiling so wide (it’s been so long since he’s smiled like this). But with his arms full of Lily, her thrilled laughter in his ear, he succumbs to it: _okay. You win. Maybe I do get to be this happy_. 

* * *

Seeing Peter again is a shock. 

More than a shock really, it’s an icy bucket of water over the flames of his happiness, and he looks quickly to Sirius, who shrugs apologetically. Despite Sirius’ offhand comment, he hadn’t really registered that Peter would be _here_ , hanging out with them all like it was all fine.

Except… Remus is an expert people-pleaser, and consequently can read people like the back of Sirius’ hand. And there’s no discomfort in his friends’ faces as they ask Peter to _please pass the rice_ , only perhaps the slightest suggestion of awkwardness. 

But he can be polite - he’ll ask Sirius what the hell is happening later, and focus on the utterly wonderful here and now, Peter’s presence aside. The heat of the curry is _deliciously_ flavourful, bursting turmeric and cumin on his tongue, pockets of rice coated in sauce melting in his mouth - he’d forgotten what a good cook James is. 

“This tastes incredible, Prongs,” he says thickly, and James beams, basking in the glow of friendship. 

Remus can tell they all have questions for him, with the possible exception of Sirius, who seems content to just sit and press his foot against Remus’ calf in a _very_ distracting way. But nobody wants to be the first to start the interrogation.

“You know you can ask, right?” he says, as he and Lily clear the plates away. 

“We don’t want to push if it’s too soon,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears in such a familiar motion Remus is dizzy with nostalgia.

“No - it’s fine.”

“But if it _does_ get to be too much, we can wait,” she says, leaving no room for argument. Remus nods anyway, and sure enough, as they return to the dinner table with more wine, James fires off the first question.

“So, what happened, Moony?”

“You might have to be a bit more specific than that, Prongs,” Sirius says, rolling his eyes, and James kicks him.

“How did you die?” 

“Fucking hell, no messing around-”

“Shut _up_ , Padfoot.”

(Remus really _has_ missed their squabbling in its predictable tug of war).

And so, Remus begins to explain, laying bare the events of the year that brought them teetering on the edge of a losing battle. He skirts round the details of cold nights spent watching, tracking, planning, because they are filled with loss, desperation, and pain that seems at odds with the warm comfort of the Potters’ kitchen table. Instead, he speaks of Harry and his admiration for a boy so young - too young to be so battle worn - but burning bright with the _goodness_ inside him. He tells them of the man who demanded better from Remus when he was weak and full of fear, who put his faith in Dumbledore’s crazy scheme, who is wiser than his years and stronger than he knows.

“And so brilliant. He’s truly talented - which isn’t a surprise considering who his parents are, but… a fully-formed Patronus at just _thirteen_?”

“It sounds like he had a damned good teacher,” James’ voice is crackly with emotion, and Remus looks up startled. Lily has her head leant on James’ shoulder, and they’re both _crying_ , they weren’t supposed to _cry,_ what did he _do-_

“Thank you, Remus,” Lily says, and he realises they aren’t tears of sorrow. It’s pride and love and if there’s any sadness, it’s only that they didn’t get to witness their son’s deeds first-hand. 

Sirius squeezes Remus’ shoulder, swiping at his own eyes. “He’s such a good kid, Lils,” Sirius says, voice soft. 

“The best,” Remus murmurs in agreement.

“I… I’m so grateful he had you both there,” James says. “I - thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank us.”

“But there is. In fact. Moony, we - I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, I can’t believe I-”

“Don’t, Prongs, it’s-”

“No, you don’t-”

“I would have doubted me too,” Remus cuts him off. “You were trying to do what was best for your family, and I wasn’t exactly behaving like a non-suspicious friend.”

(Peter shuffles uncomfortably but stays. Faces the music of everything his decision caused).

“Only because you were off risking your life to gather intelligence that kept us safe,” James returns.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Yes. And I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long for an apology.”

“I -” Remus swallows. “Thank you.”

(He doesn’t bother mentioning the years he spent blaming himself after their deaths, for not spotting it in Sirius, for not wanting to believe him capable - and later for believing him capable of it. Those were such lonely, difficult years that he barely made it through, it’s not a conversation for this evening).

Instead, the conversation shifts to lighter topics: what his old friends have been getting up to in the afterlife, and a drunken game of Exploding Snap that only ends when James almost singes his eyebrows off through overenthusiastic, uncoordinated ‘snaps’ (read: blatant attempts at cheating).

It’s a wonderful night, pressed between Sirius and Lily and utterly cocooned by their affection, it’s the happiest Remus has been in such a long time. 

He doesn’t want it to end. 

* * *

It's not for a few days that Remus has a chance to catch Peter on his own. In fact, he's just coming from a lazy morning spent with Tonks, eating chocolate pancakes and stealing kisses, and is on the way to Sirius' when Peter steps in line with Remus. 

"Alright?" he says, and Remus fights to keep his face neutral. 

"Hi," he says, a little shortly.

They walk a few paces in silence before Peter stops. For a second, Remus considers not stopping at all, but he's kinder than that. He stops, turns to Peter, who is watching him anxiously. 

"We should talk," Peter says, and though his voice isn't as strong as he would have liked, his eyes stay on Remus'. 

Remus sighs. He's right but the prospect brings little joy. Once upon a time, Peter was his confidante for his Huge Embarrassing Sirius Crush, his partner in crime (since James and Sirius were a done deal), his best friend. 

_Where did it go so wrong?_

"I'm sorry, Remus. I really am. I regret it more than anything in the world - and I know it doesn't change what happened - what I did. But I am so, _so_ sorry."

"Do you know what it did to me?" Remus says, and he's suddenly exhausted by it. The words pick themselves up off his tongue and use their final burst of energy to fire off at Peter. "Do you know I had to go to Lily and James' funeral _alone_? Do you know I nearly killed myself over the grief of it all? I lost my best friends and my partner, and _you_ did that. The world suffered and burned, and _you did that_."

"I know." Peter bows his head, and Remus watches his own fatigue capture Peter too. "It's unforgivable. And… I'm not asking for your forgiveness. I just need you to know that I'm sorry."

The weight of all that guilt. It saps Remus just to think of it - and he thought his own burden of shame was heavy enough. Peter strikes a forlorn figure, and Remus is almost pissed off at him for making himself so pitiable. His back slightly hunched, eyes downcast, nails chewed down to the quick through nerves. He looks every inch the anxious schoolboy who'd been so afraid of getting into trouble, who would have done anything for praise from James, who turned himself into a _goddamn rat_ for Remus. 

The part of Remus that insists on seeing the best in people, no matter how many times they let him down, can't stand Peter bearing all that guilt alone. 

The part that's still a ragged, oozing wound of hurt (perhaps it always will be) whispers of all that Peter has done. 

Remus is so tired.

He's not quite ready to forgive Peter yet; it's too much to ask right now, and besides, it's not his sole decision to make. 

But he can join James, Lily, and Sirius in their uneasy truce. He can accept that Peter is sorry, without having to _forgive_ just yet. There's a difference. 

Forgiveness will come, he knows this. For all his flaws - and Remus has plenty - he is generous with second chances. 

And so, he claps a hand on Peter's arm, tries for a kind smile. "I know you're sorry," Remus says, weighing his words carefully. "Give me some time."

Peter's sad, watery eyes widen, and he begins nodding frantically, stumbling over his sentences in his haste - " _thank you, Moony… as long as you need… thank you…._"

Exhaustion will eventually wither into a wary weariness, one day to be reborn as forgiveness.

Not yet. Not even one day soon. 

But one day.

* * *

They settle into something of a rhythm remarkably quickly. Remus spends half of his days with Tonks, exploring and talking, carefree in a way their lives had never been allowed to be previously. Whenever they’re not together, Remus is with Sirius (and usually the rest of the Marauders too, because they seem drawn to one another at all times like Nifflers to Galleons). It’s a little suffocating but in a way he’s craved for almost two decades now - it’s everything he wanted and more. 

Although...

Despite Sirius' cavalier words, it's not as straightforward as he'd hoped. By his own admission, Sirius doesn’t like to share, is jealous by nature, and hates to admit he was wrong. And so, Remus shouldn’t be surprised at the hastily concealed crestfallen look in his eyes when Remus mentions spending the night at Tonks’, or an almost-annoyed expression when Remus refers to his and Tonks’ mortal lives together. 

Tonks too is finding it more difficult than she’ll admit, though at least she’s _sort of_ seeing the kind-faced, open-hearted woman - Charity - who lives next door but one. That brings a whole other dimension of complications, but at least she’s not lonely when Remus leaves. Even if the sadness when he walks round to Sirius’ pierces at his heart. 

Remus watches them hurting and _despises_ himself for putting them in this position. 

How could he have been so selfish? How could he have believed he could - or even deserved to - make this work? Instead, he’s just making everyone miserable.

It’s James who resolves things, in his very matter of fact, stop-being-dungbrains-and- _communicate_ -damnit way. 

They’re having a picnic in one of the town’s many parks - the Marauders, Dorcas and Marlene, and Fabi squished together on a mismatched set of picnic blankets, when James marches over to where Remus is draped under Sirius. 

“Moony, a word?” James doesn’t wait for a response but wraps his arm around Remus’ shoulders and steers him away from the gang. 

“Is - is everything okay?” The purposeful look in James’ eyes is more than a little worrying. 

“What? Yeah, of course!” He grins at Remus’ expression. “No need to look so worried, Moony.”

“Okay…?”

“Tonks.”

“What about her?”

“You should bring her next time. We want to meet her!”

Remus swallows, wonders how his incredibly talented, genius-level best friend could _possibly_ be this thick. “I can’t,” he says slowly, “because… well, it might make Sirius uncomfortable.”

“Yes, because he’s very comfortable with this awkward _thing_ you’re doing at the moment.”

That stings, and Remus recoils a little. James bites his lip, “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You meant it though.”

James sighs. “Look. What I mean is. We all want to meet the woman who’s so special to you, and I think it would be _good_ for him to see you together, you know?”

“ _Why_? How could that possibly be good for him?”

“Because it’s _different._ Because it’s not a threat. He needs to see that you love him, _and_ you love her. Just. Trust me on this, okay? Bring her next time.” He saunters off, leaving Remus reeling, but with very little choice. He does trust James - would trust him with his life - and James knows this. But he doesn’t want to hurt Sirius or Tonks more than he already has. 

And then again - James is right. This isn’t pain free for any of them.

* * *

“Are you _sure_ I’m invited?” Tonks asks for the seventh time on the way to the park, and Remus hates the uncharacteristic insecurity in her eyes (green today). 

“Yes, love,” he responds, as he has every other time. 

Sure enough, she certainly gets a big welcome from all of his friends. She’s immediately claimed by Dorcas and Fabi, who are utterly charmed by her Metamorphmagus-ing. Tonks shoots him a faux-panicked look as they pull her towards their corner of the rug, but soon she’s cackling with them at Dorcas’ impressions and admiring Fabi’s nail polish.

James, Sirius, and Gids are playing Quidditch – sort of - that mostly seems to consist of hurling the Quaffle at Peter (the unlucky Keeper) as hard and fast as possible. It’s only when Peter slips off the end of the broom with a panicked squeak, and Remus has to cast an emergency _Arresto Momentum_ , that they call it quits.

Sirius plops down next to him, and Remus automatically twines their hands together. His eyes flicker briefly towards Tonks, but it’s not a worried, bragging, or pitying look in his eyes - it’s just curious. 

Remus looks at her too, to see her watching them - or rather, watching Sirius. 

A look passes between them that Remus - as intimately as he knows his lovers - can’t interpret. Then Tonks nods, a small smile on her lips, and Sirius returns it in kind.

And then, the moment is gone, and Sirius is playing with Remus’ hands.

“What was _that_?” Remus asks, but Sirius only smiles serenely.

Later, when he asks Tonks the same question, she taps the side of her nose, “that’s for me to know, love.”

All he knows is that from that day, there’s a shift in the way the three of them interact. Sirius and Tonks gradually rekindle the embers of their friendship, the rivalry between them apparently turned to ash, and Remus stops questioning it, because maybe (just maybe), he _is_ worth making this work.

* * *

_What Remus doesn’t get to hear, part one - a conversation between Lily and Tonks an hour earlier_ :

“Sirius really does make him so happy, doesn’t he?” Tonks murmurs wistfully. She’s watching Remus watch Sirius with an utterly besotted expression, and she takes a sad swig of her wine. 

Lily frowns. “Yes, he does, but so do you.”

“Not like _that_ though.” She nods her head towards them, and Lily turns to look.

“Well no, but it’s different,” she says, turning back, and Tonks is too slow to hide the crushing disappointment. “No, no, you don’t understand. He’s quieter with you, because you read him so well that you don’t ask him to be something he’s not. He talks about you all the time when you’re not around - _Tonks is so talented… I can’t believe I’m Tonks’ husband_ \- it’s bloody adorable.”

Tonks flushes, “but they have so much history.”

“And you’re just getting started.”

She tips her head, considering. “You’re a very wise woman, Lily.”

“I know,” Lily grins over her glass. “One more thing?”

Tonks raises her eyebrows.

“You see how Remus is looking at him now?”

She glances to where her husband is watching Sirius perform some ridiculous (fun) stunt on his broom, his eyes pure caramel with how soft they look. “What about it?”

“You know he looks at you like that too? He may not have always done it, like he did with Sirius, but he always will now.”

* * *

_What Remus doesn’t get to hear, part two - a conversation between James and Sirius a little after lunch morning_ :

"Please kindly stop with that face whenever Moony mentions his lovely wife."

The valleys of Sirius' scowl deepen. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bull _shit_ ," James says in a singsong voice.

"Okay, fine. I'm jealous, is that what you wanted me to say?" 

"Explain."

"I obviously don't need to if you've already got it all figured out."

"Humour me."

Sirius rolls his eyes. "I'm jealous that Moony is in love with her."

"Because…."

"Because I want him to be in love with me."

There's a pause. "Are you joking?"

Sirius gives him a _look_ , and James shoots it right back. 

"Are you half-Troll? That's the only explanation I can think of as to why you'd say something so bloody moronic?"

"Fuck off, Prongs."

" _Padfoot._ Of _course_ Moony is in love with you. Merlin's beard, he's _always_ been in love with you. He practically fell apart without you - both times. He came to _you_ and kissed _you_ , and he told you he wanted to marry you? And he looks at you like… like you're a fucking work of art or something-"

"Accurate."

"-so _don't_ hit me with that _he-doesn't-love-me_ crap, when he worships the ground you walk on."

Sirius' cheeks are flushed - a sign he is truly self-conscious. "Thanks, Prongs," he murmurs to the ground, because he doesn't want to face his best friend's smug face.

"And, Padfoot?"

"Mm?"

"Ask him."

"What?"

"You know he'll say yes."

* * *

He does say yes. 

Sirius kneels before him one evening after a meandering, starlit stroll. The night sky is stunning this far from the lights of the town, but even it doesn't compare to the sight of Sirius saying, 'marry me?' with such devotion in his eyes, Remus is giddy with it. 

Their wedding is a raucous, chaotic, wonderful affair, pulled together in a matter of days.

Fleamont Potter officiates, tearing up even more than his son (which is a _lot_ ), and Remus' heart could _burst_ for all the joy it's attempting to contain. 

He has a husband and a wife, both of whom he loves more than anything. Merlin, he doesn't know what he did to deserve these gifts, but they're all _his_.

* * *

It’s not a perfect dynamic between them, of course. They squabble, as any partners do, harsh words when they’re tired, or _you love them more than me_ when they’re looking to strike. But Tonks and Sirius become thick as thieves, partners in the crime of adoring Remus, and obsessed with one-upping each other for the most ridiculous, elaborate gift for him. 

(Tonks is currently winning, with an ice sculpture of a naked Remus standing in their garden. Remus has tried everything in his power to melt it, but between Lily and Tonks' combined magic, he's resigned himself to humiliated amusement). 

(He wouldn't change it for the world). 

* * *

Except one more thing: Teddy. 

Tonks and Remus still dart around the issue of their orphaned son like an open wound. The few times they've attempted to talk about him, to reassure themselves that Harry is alive and well and raising Teddy with all the love and care he would his own children, it only serves to upset them further. 

Eventually, as he often used to, Remus turns to Lily - her empathy a soothing balm on his hurt. More than anyone she understands that he had to leave Teddy, that in order to create a world he could live in, his parents had to die. He longs for the easy warmth with which she and James refer to Harry, because he can't ever imagine it won't hurt like this.

"It will get better, Remus, I promise." She holds him tight and he _breathes._

"I just feel so guilty," Remus admits. 

"That's _normal._ Christ, do you know how much I used to punish myself by thinking about Harry like that? And _especially_ since, knowing what my sister's family are." 

"But it wasn't your fault - your death saved his life."

"And so did yours for Teddy."

"It's not the same."

"Why not?"

"Because you didn't _choose_ to leave him, you were being hunted, you had no choice_"

"There's _always_ a choice," Lily interrupts harshly. "And I chose to save my son. And so did you. Your death was part of saving Teddy's life, his future. It's not fair, and it's not going to ever feel okay, but you made a brave, loving choice."

There are tears in Remus' eyes, but unlike every other time he's thought of his son, he doesn't try to fight these. Like streams forging new ground, they trickle down his cheeks, and something jagged and broken in him dislodges itself with a jolt. 

"Thank you, Lils."

"Don't thank me, you dolt."

Remus smiles in spite of himself. 

"But you do need to talk about him. If not with Tonks, then talk to me. Or Sirius. You can't keep this inside, okay? Promise me you won't."

Remus nods, and mostly means it. 

"Do you need to be alone for a while now?"

"I think I need to talk to Tonks." Remus brushes at his eyes, smearing tears all over his sleeves, and makes to stand. 

Lily leaps up, "no no, you stay. I'll go get her."

True to her word, Lily returns almost immediately with a frantic Tonks, who rushes to him, takes his face in her hands, scanning him anxiously. 

"What's wrong love, what's happened?"

Remus gently puts his hands over Tonks' and says, "Teddy."

He watches Tonks' face crumple, feels the familiar urge to retreat from it, but stands firm. 

He realises now, the real reason they weren't talking about Teddy was for fear of upsetting the other. But this skirting round of such an important part of their lives was only ever going to damage them. 

But now, Remus takes a deep breath. "I miss him so fucking much, Tonks."

And she crumbles against him. "Me too, _me too_."

* * *

Afterlife or mortal life, Remus has spent his entire existence being intimately aware of the moon's cycles, and it's no different now.

He braces himself for the muscle pain and aching joints that grace the week leading up to the full moon, and Sirius stocks up on pain potions without him even needing to ask. But the pain doesn't come - nor does the irritable itching beneath his skin, nor the all-encompassing exhaustion. Instead, Remus approaches the night of the full moon feeling refreshed and pain-free for the first time he can remember.

Lily makes him the Wolfsbane potion, though James and Sirius and Peter talk him into trying the first full moon without it. They argue that they are surrounded by endless stretches of green space and that with the three Animagi reunited again, the Wolf will be a doddle to control. _You can always take the potion the next time,_ James says, and Remus tries not to flinch at his words because what he doesn't understand - what none of them have ever understood - is that that's not the point. 

Against his better judgement though, he heads out into the hillsides with his friends in the early evening of the full moon. They walk for several miles beneath the sinking sun, until their town is barely a smudge on the horizon, before settling in to sit and wait. 

The sky dims, then gradually lights up in tiny pinpricks, and then…

The moon drifts into view, and Remus tenses-

But there's no snapping of bones.

No boiling blood melting skin into fur.

No maleficent rage rising up inside of him. 

Instead, there's a slight discomfort of reshuffling bones, a tingling across his skin, an urge to _move,_ and suddenly he's a _wolf_. 

But not a werewolf.

Just a wolf. 

He can feel three pairs of eyes on him - a dog, a stag, and a rat - and he meets their gaze, _knowing_ them for the first time. Prongs is a magnificent creature, sleek fur and a crown of antlers. Wormtail is _fast_ , streaking through the grass and balancing on the narrowest branches. And Padfoot - is pure joy, bounding up and down in excitement, barking and chasing his tail in circles. 

Moony tips his head back and howls - but it’s ecstasy rather than painful bloodlust. 

And for the first night ever, Moony runs free with his three best friends across endless moonlit fields.

They’re a motley crew - a wolf, a rat, a dog, and a stag.

But they belong _together._

They belong to each other.


	5. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot & Prongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teeny, tiny epilogue :)

It’s different - of course it is. 

They’ve all been irrevocably changed by their lived lives, and again, by their afterlives. 

James and Lily have finally become the sickening old couple they always deserved to be. The hard-edged trauma of living in hiding and losing their son finally softens into a savouring of this second chance, most expressed in lingering kisses, boundless energy, and unapologetic adoration of their friends. 

Sirius and Remus ride the wave of relearning each other’s bodies and minds. Sirius still bears the scars of Azkaban and Remus carries the weight of a life-long self-loathing. Being together doesn’t magically heal those things – Sirius still wakes in the night screaming of ‘their Kiss,’ there are still days that Remus cannot, for all the kisses and cuddles he’s blessed with, get out of bed.

But their togetherness brings a comfort that makes their combined pain manageable. Because when Sirius wakes with a strangled cry, Remus is there to hold him, murmur how loved he is, coax him back to sleep. And when the overwhelming dread of existence paralyses Remus to his sheets, Sirius clambers right in beside him to remind him he’s never alone.

As for Peter… it’s a long road to forgiveness, but he’s clocking up the miles with an unprecedented courage and determination. He can’t help but see the irony in the fact his death has made him become someone worth saving.

The four of them - although by now, Lily is essentially one of the Marauders too – cause unapologetic, joyful havoc in the afterlife.

They frustrate their neighbourhood with their Prank Wars – _especially_ when Lily challenges them to only use Muggle methods (and promptly wins with a classic combination of wrapping paper, clingfilm, and hair dye). The Marauders Map becomes a fleshed out, correctly-spelled treasure map of possibilities, and they spend _hours_ exploring and then developing their surroundings with secret tunnels and a fountain that splits open to reveal Peter’s snack stash (as long as you know the password). Their nights are spent racing each other across starlit landscapes, lying on their backs and reminiscing, or crowded around a dinner table with card games and laughter.

Gradually, other familiar faces join them - no longer in waves as their friends are systematically murdered, but as individual occurrences and in their own time. 

(The day that Harry James Potter walks uncertainly up the pathway to his parents’ house shifts everything once again).

But through it all, they’re there for each other: grieving, laughing, plotting, eating, crying, hugging, running, remembering, _being_ – all of it, they’re together.

And fuck it – all was truly well.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Memories’ by Maroon 5  
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://little-old-rachel.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/littleoldrachel)!  
> 


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